


Queen's Rook

by Margaret_Armstrong



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: L2 forever!, Multi, The Past Never Stays Buried, Women Being Awesome, brothers in arms, everyone protects Quatre except Quatre
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 22:32:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6489955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margaret_Armstrong/pseuds/Margaret_Armstrong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rook; definition:<br/>1. a gregarious Eurasian crow with black plumage and a bare face, nesting in colonies in treetops.<br/>2. a chess piece, typically with its top in the shape of a battlement, that can move in any direction along a rank or file on which it stands. </p><p>Queen's Rook; definition:<br/>(chess) A rook on the queen’s side of the board at the start of the game.</p><p>Truly, a female bodyguard is just what the Vice Foreign Minister needs. There are dangers about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Left Behind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [felspar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/felspar/gifts).



> Happy 21st birthday, Gundam Wing! 
> 
> Author’s Note & Disclaimer: I own none of the Gundam Wing characters. Obviously.
> 
> Secondly, though I do have my beloved ships in this universe, I got into Gundam Wing for more than just the pretty faces. Every male character has a female counterpart that informs our conception of his character. Said female characters do stuff independently without ridiculous amounts of fan service, and although the creators obviously have a thing for romance in a world of war, romance isn’t the main focus at all.  
> Relena and Hilde get to hang out quite a lot in this story (WHY does no one write about the conversation those two had on Libra? That is prime fanfic fodder if I ever saw it.), and the interplay between the two is so much fun in my head, surely it must translate well in writing. Such is every writer’s hope.  
> Thirdly, I know about Frozen Teardrop. It makes me sad. I have elected to ignore that plot entirely so that I can wreak havoc here.
> 
> Mostly, this is an L2 story. 
> 
> Death and violence figure heavily here (extremely heavily—I will warn the squeamish before each chapter.), as well as profanity--mostly from our lovely Duo, but he generously shares the four-letter spotlight with others. There will also be references to drugs, alcohol, and mental health issues. I often find lemons to be distracting from the plot, but there will be sexual situations here aplenty; those sexual situations will also be between couples of the same sex. If you don’t like that sort of thing—Goodness, what are you doing in the Gundam Wing fandom anyway?  
> I also intend to do my best to keep the culture smash alive in this fic. Please bear with me if I apply foreign languages injudiciously or incorrectly describe a cultural reality. All the different things human beings do add such richness to the world, I want to touch on as much of it as possible. Original characters run rampant here, adding flavor and cannon fodder.  
> Also, I love music. Each chapter will include a recommendation for your soundtrack listening pleasure. 
> 
> For this beginning, please do me a favor and give an ear to Vienna Teng's “Never Look Away.” This song reawoke the muse to the point it became Hilde's theme, and it is simply lovely.  
> For fanfic background music:  
> Part 1- LHB & Imogen Heap, “Coming up for Air.”  
> Part 2- Imogen Heap/Frou-Frou remix of “Aeroplane.”
> 
> To all who choose to read: Please enjoy.

 -----

 

**AC 199, January 3. L2.**

 

_Whoever decided to create artificial seasons on the colonies deserves a punch in the nose._

Hilde Schbeiker wrapped the muffler tightly around her face and leaned into the vented cold, hands balled into fists underneath her arms. The leather messenger bag banged against her hip, itself a little slab of cold in an icy world. On a sensible level, she understood that the maintenance crews needed an off-season with the bulk of the temperature coils that kept the colony from being alternately a boiling hell in the face of the sun or a frozen rock in the moon’s shadow, but encouraging wind with manual air pressure changes was a bit too much.

_One of these days they’ll go overboard and create a fissure…_

She sighed, thankful for the barrier of white yarn around her face and the thick wool of her coat. She’d shoved her beret as far down as it would go so she could close the coat’s hood, but snow still somehow got in. It wouldn’t be so bad if the snow didn’t melt once it got near her ear, but she supposed there wasn’t much to be done about the situation now.

She broke into a run, avoiding salty slush puddles and other pedestrians as well as she could.

The guy in the red cap knew she’d made him.

He had at least two other friends that she’d been able to pinpoint earlier in the crowd, and the way they walked stank of military. She didn’t know _which_ military, she didn’t _care_ which military, as long as they left her alone and stayed away from the house. Because odds were, they were only following her to get to Duo, and in fifteen days it would be an entire year since she’d seen him in the flesh. Six months since the last video call.

28 days since the last e-mail, and she was pretty sure that was something he’d automated to stop her from freaking out.

Obviously he was busy pissing off the people who needed to be pissed off if these goons were chasing her, and that fact alone soothed Hilde. Tracking down an old friend of one’s target was the mark of the desperate, so the braided idiot was probably fine.

She skidded under a parked car, judging the infuriated shout of her pursuer to be about thirty feet behind. Way too close. Hilde launched out of the slush and skipped over a frozen bench, attempting to put as many obstacles between herself and the others as possible. There was even an unattended delivery truck up ahead if she was feeling fancy.

She wasn’t.

But Hilde did grab one of the safety bars to turn the sharp corner at speed.

One glance backwards confirmed three pursuers: the man in the red cap, another in a gray coat, and a stocky man in glasses. Mr. Gray was reaching inside his coat, and Hilde knew exactly what that meant.

She ripped open the muffler and doubled her speed, kicking off from a waist-high chunk of ice to change direction once again. If she just wanted to lose them, heading for the food market would be the best move, but with Mr. Gray’s eagerness to bring a gun into the equation, Hilde was loathe to take these yo-yos anywhere near the innocent populace.

_Reconstruction Alley it is, then._

Calling it an alley was L2’s bitter idea of a joke. The buildings here were mech-blasted shells, crumbling relics of the age when Earth and L2 were at loggerheads and blowing each other up seemed the only sensible thing to do. What the decades-long war had started, economic depression and civic disdain exacerbated until what had once been a glittering district of shopping towers and residential apartments had become a mildewed, collapsing eyesore. No one had ever put the money towards reversing the process. The concrete and chain link fence emblazoned with “Reconstruction! Coming Soon!” had been up since 186, and no reconstruction had ever been forthcoming, though plenty of enterprising scavengers had combed the outer ring for copper pipes.

Some never came back.

No sane colonist went closer to Reconstruction Alley than the wall, and even that daring act carried with it an expectancy of getting shanked.

So. Perfect, then.

Hilde dashed up a leaning streetlight, trusting boots and velocity to keep her going the direction she wanted to go, and leapt for the gaping maw of a glassless window. She hit the exposed concrete floor in a roll, narrowly missing a nasty cluster of wrenched rebar probably left over from when an Alliance mech punched through the floor. She lay there with one eye closed to get it used to the dark, listening for sounds from the outside. Inside was eerily quiet, like most buildings at the Rim. None of the homeless kept camp here because the criminal element liked to pick and choose bases from which to raid the law-abiding, and junkies preferred to meet their suppliers in the lower stories.

One of her favorite aspects of these old buildings was their echo qualities. If you could just stay still and quiet enough…

Ah, voices.

Not L2 accents, either, which increased the likelihood of these people being another military faction in search of a Gundam pilot to torture. Also explained why they were idiotic enough to cross the wall.

Hilde thought hard about simply allowing them to keep walking.

It was ever so tempting to let L2’s natural defenses take care of her problem.

However.

There were still street urchins hiding in here, and the kids didn’t have guns. Neither did she currently, but as Duo had pointed out during one memorable training session, “The other guy has a weapon you can take.”

She slowed her breath, focusing upon alien sounds like he taught her to do.

They were approaching from three different directions. If she were to handle each one alone, she’d have to move fast. Either Red Cap or Stocky would be a better choice than trigger-happy Gray. Or…

Perhaps Gray was the ideal initial target.

He’d already shown her where he kept his weapon, though that was no guarantee it was his only one.

The colony-produced snow was coming down more heavily now that the winter daylight cycle advanced the close, and Hilde wouldn’t be caught dead in Reconstruction Alley after dark. She assessed options, flexing her wet gloves in silence to keep the blood flowing. They weren’t talking anymore, but grown men of their size couldn’t move completely quietly in the lengthening shadows here. They also didn’t _know_ this place like she did.

Hilde slipped to her feet, bag held tight to her chest.

There was a light step about twenty feet below and to the side where an old-fashioned brass elevator had fallen, smashed like an exploded bird cage. Fifty feet and outside, heavier plods denoted either Stocky or Red Cap; she hadn’t seen enough of their movements to make a good standard of elimination as to how their footsteps would sound, but Gray was certainly the lightest of the three, so it must be him checking out the elevator.

Still with one eye closed, Hilde took a handful of gravel from a gouge on the wall and tiptoed to the empty elevator shaft, bag slung safely across her shoulder. Underhanded, she tossed the gravel across the room. It clattered like a thousand skittering rats, and the telltale gasp of breath from below told her that he’d noticed.

All she did was drop.

Twenty feet was a fairly respectable distance, but the landing wasn’t so bad as long as you chose something soft. Both eyes open, she clocked the very surprised (and now perpendicular) Gray in the jaw and relieved him of a quite nice-looking Berretta. 

One down. Two incoming.

She dashed to the shadows, jumping over a dilapidated security desk and familiarizing herself with her prize. The safety was still on, which rather endeared the unconscious Mr. Gray to her heart. They didn’t want to _hurt_ her, just to talk… Cocky bastard.

Hilde moved crabwise into further shadow, half-smiling when quick rhythmic beats closed the distance between the main door and the elevator, then twisted for her. She ran right up to meet him, but dipped low at the last minute and aimed a side kick at Stocky’s knee. He dodged, but only enough to keep himself from injury. Stocky stumbled and lost speed, enabling Hilde to focus upon Red Cap, who was easily the fastest and most agile of the three and kept her busy for what felt like a breathless eternity.

He grabbed for her bag, but she clenched it in midair and used the reinforced side to hit him in the skull, spinning away with the energy of it. There a recovered Stocky brandished his fists, aiming for a small, fast target in the dark.

_Damn, big boy. As soon as your eyes adjust, I’m in trouble._

She kicked him in the balls with steel-toed mechanic’s boots. There really was no nice way to do it, and Hilde would take the slight twinge of guilt at using this most male of vulnerabilities over entrapment by strangers any time. Thank goodness he just doubled over into a ball rather than screaming like the last guy who’d forced her to use that move.

What felt like a Taurus MS smacked into her chest and sent Hilde airborne. Crumpling in a heap next to the security desk, she watched Red Cap lower his foot, flabbergasted that all that power had come from a single kick.

_Serves me right for hesitating in the middle of a fight._

He leisurely stalked towards her, shoulders rolling not like a testosterone-crazed vigilante, but like a special forces operative who knew exactly when to pull his punches. Or not. In a different situation, Hilde would appreciate the man’s cool self-knowledge as a thing of beauty, but with violent menace just a few strides away, she thought of the Berretta and all the damned noise it would make.

Hilde _hated_ bringing attention to herself in Reconstruction Alley.

Thank the warmongering Alliance for rebar. She swung the loose hunk of metal heavily into Red Cap’s knee, following upwards with a cross-punch of her elbow to his nose. Being tiny meant she had sharp bones. Given all the nutrients she’d been eating lately, they were sharp, _strong_ bones, and Red Cap’s nose crunched sideways.

Her elbow hurt like hell. She spun and swiped him again in the fleshy bits with the rebar; it was like punching concrete, but it did tip him out of her space enough to make a run for it.

But they’d just keep coming if she left it like this.

While Red Cap wheezed out a bloody puff of air, Hilde threw her bag strap around his neck and wrenched him down with all her body weight like a noose on a bull. His rebar-wounded knee collapsed. She took the opportunity to jump upon his back and twisted the bag strap in her fist until he could barely breathe. Only just.

The Berretta went to the base of his skull.

“Who are you and what do you want?”

“They’re with me, I’m afraid.”

Hilde hunkered down upon her living perch, not trusting this new female voice and loathe to expose herself further in the growing twilight. Soon it would be officially dark. The unknown person stepped through the gathered piles of trash, tall and slender and clean amidst dust and twisted metal and spent syringes.

“Really, Miss Schbeiker. You don’t remember me?” She took her hat off and tossed short black hair to the side, calm but focused. “It’s only been a few years since Peacemillion.”

“…Lieutenant Noin?”

 

\-----

 

“I apologize for meeting you like this, but I had to test your instincts.”

Noin set a gloriously steamy coffee before her, following it with, aha, a chocolate torte. Hilde peeled off sodden gloves and wrapped her hands around the porcelain mug, ready to listen for as long as it took her fingers to feel again. Though only four blocks away from Reconstruction Alley, the trendy coffee shop was really a world apart from that particular L2 reality. Here the well-heeled and the tourists laughed and _chit-chatted_. This was post-war L2, the ever-changing colony of communications and trade ‘rising from the ashes like a phoenix,’ as Governor Ormann had put it. He was very big on using Earth colloquialisms in his speeches now that the regime had changed. “Looking back on our shared past to inform our prosperous future” had been part of his speech introducing the reinforcement of Platform 2-390, otherwise known as the Squatter Laws. The Sweepers had been mightily opposed to that antiquated bullshit, but a great deal of civilian L2 had welcomed the idea of protected homesteads registered and clear.

For Hilde, it had been one big headache, requiring hours of reading and re-reading L2’s articles of establishment (plus those of the other colonies) to see what she could and could not do as an underage owner-operator of a scrap business. Fortunately, she had a couple people on the books then to handle what was not permitted until December the 5th, when she finally turned eighteen and L2 law presented her with an entirely different set of problems.

There were days when she wanted to trap Ormann in an airlock.

Noin spoke. “I want you to apply for a job.”

_‘I want you to apply.’ Not ‘I want to offer you.’ Hm._

Hilde looked up cautiously. “What job?”

Noin sighed, and Hilde was struck once more with how capable the woman was, and how beautiful. She’d studied the non-classified particulars of Lieutenant Noin’s career with great admiration as an initial OZ recruit, and to meet her after the Battle of Christmas had been one of the most elating experiences Hilde had ever had, hospital room notwithstanding. Noin truly was as intelligent and courageous as her file indicated, and even now, years later, Hilde was still in awe of her and wished her well. Dressed in classically tailored civilian clothes, she still hadn’t lost the commanding aura of an OZ officer, but there was something softer about her, less melancholy. Noin’s deep and abiding devotion to Zechs Marquise had been an open secret in the OZ ranks even among the colonist recruits, and apparently a few years alone with an unmasked Millardo Peacecraft on Mars had done her good. Maybe he’d finally gotten his head screwed on right when the mask got screwed off.

“Personal secretary to Vice Foreign Minister Darlian.”

Hilde sucked in a breath, glad the coffee had been too hot to drink yet. Noin looked appropriately concerned, but… hopeful.

“I trust you remember her.”

“Of course.” _I remember every second of that day until I passed out with Duo screaming at me._

Noin leaned forward. “Then I trust you are aware she’s had some… issues finding a good assistant?”

_“Issues” is putting it lightly! Every year around her birthday and the anniversary of the Battle of Christmas, some new batch of war-mongering morons attacks her entourage. Honestly, that’s what we did on Christmas while we decorated the tree, watched the news wave reports. Paulie was convinced we’d see a Gundam pilot._ “Didn’t the last one facilitate her kidnapping by a terrorist agency?”

“Precisely.”

“I thought the decision was to put her under constant Preventer supervision so no one dangerous could get that close again.”

“Relena dislikes bodyguards.”

Hilde thought back to the girl she’d met by chance on Libra. “She’s been surrounded by them all her life, hasn’t she?”

“She specializes in subtly separating herself from protective custody.” When Hilde reacted to this, Noin just shook her head. Apparently the former Queen of the World had a long-running tradition of escaping the gilded cage. “As do the groups who try to use her as a pawn. We think that the presence of someone her own age-“ Hilde gaped. “-Would make her more amenable to staying in the safe zone.”

_Don’t ask about Duo. Don’t ask._ “Forgive me for saying this, but don’t you _have_ Preventer agents her age?” _Like that Heero guy. I’m sure she’d stay put for him… Unless something went wrong._

“I am not at liberty to discuss active missions at the present time.” The older woman smiled gently at Hilde’s discomfiture, taking a sip of her own coffee. “Plus, it is the considered opinion of Commander Une that a female operative would suit her better.”

Hilde felt a chill that had nothing to do with current colony temperature roll down her spine.

Une. Commander Une.

This was tantamount to an offer to join the Preventers, or at least to serve as something akin to a Preventer agent. A chance to serve a higher purpose, using _all_ of her training and skill, not just to live peacefully at home, keeping the scrapyard running. Staying out of danger. 

“…So, a secretary who’s really a bodyguard?” She had to taste the sentence to believe it was real.

Noin nodded her approbation. “A last line of defense in a worst-case scenario, someone who could be embedded with our noncombatant and keep her alive until the cavalry arrives.”

Oh god. It was beautiful.

Absolutely perfect.

It was a trap.

_I promised him. No more fighting. He thought I was dying and I promised… And now…_

Hilde mustered every scrap of willpower she could summon in the face of the perfect opportunity. “Ma’am, I appreciate your offer more than I can express.” She clamped down on her emotions, relying on strict military control to get her through this little interview with her head held high and heart visibly unbroken. “However, I cannot leave the colony. I have responsibilities here-“

“Yes,” Noin looked at her with something akin to both amusement and pride. “We are aware, and so, for your trouble-“

She named a figure.

Hilde’s heart stopped.

Just.

Stopped.

“…F-for the duration of the contract?”

“Each year.”

Holy Gods.

The new additions to the house would be nothing. Food, clothes, medical bills for eight people, nothing. Not only could Rosa’s children go to college, they could go to school on _Earth_ if they wanted to! With holidays on colony! And a lawyer, she could get one of the best…

If she hadn’t already been sitting, Hilde would have needed to.

“This is, of course, contingent on your being chosen to interview for the secretary post.” Noin met her eyes meaningfully. “Neither Une nor myself can be seen to interfere in a political appointment.”

Hilde shook her head, trying to focus. “I- Yes. Whoever gets the position must look unconnected.” She was dying to know if Noin had approached anyone else with this offer, but asking that selfishly motivated question would only belittle the question she HAD to ask. “Ma’am? May I have a day to consider this? This decision doesn’t only affect me.”

Noin nodded, handing her a folder. “The application is inside. If you are selected, I’ll know.”

_That’s a whole lot of ifs._ The young colonist took the envelope, fingertips lightly touching it as if afraid it would disappear.

“Thank you.”

The older woman stood, finishing the last of her coffee. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Schbeiker.” 

Not trusting herself to speak, Hilde nodded quickly, hoping that her absolute gratitude showed.

Her biggest teenage hero walked out the coffee shop door like a normal person. Hilde held her breath. A real, normal person. Who piloted astromechs, led forces into battle, and had an affair with a mysteriously handsome prince all without breaking a sweat. And now she wanted plain little Hilde Schbeiker to protect Earth’s last princess.

How fucking awesome was that?

 

\-----


	2. Our House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A family of all shapes and sizes, some only present in memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still don't own Gundam Wing.
> 
> Today, we explore some of the ideas that were mentioned in the last chapter- little bit of backstory, a little bit of tease. I promise you, the devil (or Maxwell's demon) is in the details.
> 
> For music! Please treat yourself to DiSA's cover of Mama Cass' "New World Coming." It's probably going to be a song call for everyone's little pet project in the future because it's so lovely and atmospheric (aside from the fact it's the theme for the new film Miss Peregrine's School for Peculiar Children), but the mood and lyrics are too perfect not to use for Gundam Wing.  
> Even more useful for a celestial inspiration is DiSA's song, "Sun," which I like to play when I'm envisioning the colonies, those fantastic whirling wheels of light and life.  
> But if you REALLY want to get inside my head for the first part, pick your favorite version of the old Irish ballad "Siúil a Rún."
> 
> Please enjoy!

\-----

**AC 199. January 24. L2.**

 

Three weeks later, Hilde Schbeiker was ready to pull her hair out. The initial application had begot more applications, more forms, and an extensive background check.

Ha.

OZ hadn’t bothered with a background check when she’d volunteered- they’d been too eager to look like a beneficial cooperative force with the colonies and none of the Gundam pilots had been female, so they hadn’t considered her a threat.

The Earth Sphere United Nation, on the other hand, had dealt with enough demented ‘freedom fighters’ and traitorous agents since its hesitant nascence (nearly aborted in early 196 due to remnants of White Fang bombing the unification conference) to become thoroughly paranoid.

The drug test hadn’t been a problem; she spent too much time operating heavy machinery to indulge in even the legitimate cannabis prevalent on-colony, much less the illegal substances they were looking for. There was nothing to be done about the four-year gap between the Plague and when the Solvigs had adopted her (And then the legal resumption of her birth name after “Marie Solvig” had to be explained.), but though the mention of “L2 Plague” was enough to get around most red tape on L2, plus her DNA markers were the same as the Hilde Marie Schbeiker born in L2 Main’s Tesla Memorial Hospital, the powers that ran the colony leg of the application process had freaked out and stalled and stalled until she’d called Howard and asked him to be a character witness that she was who she said she was.

She had hoped not to pull that particular string, but Howard had been delightfully circumspect when vouching for her identity and character. He’d also worn a suit. And a tie with palm trees on it.

She’d baked him brownies and strudel in thanks, a gift which he accepted with grave appreciation and no little good-natured heckling about a feisty war veteran wanting to “push paper with a Peacecraft.”

After that, everything fast-tracked, but it was a slow, paper-heavy fast-tracking. Each step required its own ridiculously heavy letter, for one thing, and each one came covered with stamps from Earth to the L1 Embassy, then from L1 to the L2 Embassy, then to the particular section handling the Vice Foreign Minister’s secretarial applications, then finally by hand-courier to the scrapyard, where the courier tried to flirt with whoever opened the door until Hilde could get there to personally sign for the missive. Then, joy of all joys, she had to craft a reply and send it back while the man waited.

He was already half in love with Rosa, which wasn’t a surprise even with two young boys in tow; everyone fell in love with Rosa, and there was something about the gentle, Madonna-like beauty of her when she carried Juan around the living room that inspired men to dream of domestic bliss. Niahm, on the other hand, was a redhead of L2’s fiercely Celtic sector neither intimidated nor nonplussed by even an important representative of the ESUN government (she’d gotten into the habit of carrying a ladle with her constantly on the off-chance that a letter would come and Rosa’s honor would need defending), and apparently the courier was of the certain brand of people who found that kind of challenge very appealing, much to Niahm’s distaste. Finally, he’d spent enough time waiting in the house to hear Niahm singing lullabies to the kids with Rosa, which could leave even a hardened misanthrope with a tear in the eye.

Some days, Hilde had to bodily shove him out the door.

He hadn’t yet tried to flirt with her (aside from the once), which she could only chalk up to a shred of professionalism on his part or the possibility that he assumed like the rest of L2 (the ones who knew of her connection to Duo Maxwell, anyway) that she and L2’s favorite Preventer agent had been more than friends and business partners during the war.

She supposed the assumption was flattering?

But not true.

Not that she’d ever spread information one way or the other around about Duo. After the manic, obsessive data purge he’d pulled on the scanty video files OZ had released showing his face, nobody, but _nobody_ knew he’d been a Gundam pilot—aside from his war buddies and the unfortunate occasional enemy sniffing around who had met him in person way back when. Plus, if she could possibly NOT involve him in this “secretary” venture, all the better. He’d see right through to her real reasons in a heartbeat, and then she’d be in trouble.

_Of course, our work might overlap and he’ll know anyway, but that’s a problem I can put off until later. IF I even GET this stupid job._

At the moment, Hilde had a much more immediate problem to face: how best to partition the protein cake so that four adults, two teenagers, and two babies could feel full without having to plump it out with breadcrumbs again. That recipe was getting tired, but damned if it wasn’t the best one to keep them all going.

Maybe meatballs or a curry? There were still plenty of noodles if Paulie hadn’t inhaled them all earlier in the week, and Flannery had, ironically, come back from a job not just with generous pay, but a sack of  potatoes for his trouble. Spicy food was more filling, or at least induced people to drink more water, which did the filling.

“Niahm, should we have spaghetti and meatballs or curry?”

The redhead set the peppers from her apron in the sink, shaking out the cloth to relieve it of some of the scrapyard dirt before washing her hands. “Ah, either, we’ve enough to make a feast for tonight.”

The rampant appetites of the teenage additions to the household had stymied even the generous production schedule of the hydroponics pods next to the pantry, so one day Niahm and her younger (ridiculously taller) brother had dug a garden for the heftier plants right in the sunniest spot: in front of the master bedroom’s windows. Rosa had even created a sort of greenhouse cover out of pieces of blaster-proof glass from the old mechs they were reclaiming; like all of her designs, it softened the boxlike utilitarian structure of the house while protecting the plants from the harsh L2 elements. So far, the peppers hadn’t died, and Hilde loved ducking into the pretty greenhouse for a quick warming break in the middle of a long outside inventory.

She’d mostly _been_ doing inventory for the past week, either that or tearing down the busted space debris the others brought back to her as soon as the airlock connected to the hangar hissed their arrival—if she didn’t get out in the black soon for a decent spacewalk (or, y’know, got to traverse L2 like usual), Hilde was going to go bonkers. No wonder Duo had gotten so punchy when he hadn’t been able to leave the scrapyard during the war for fear of being recognized. The place was _tiny_ , a little slivering fraction of the massive universe outside, and even with the constant stream of projects coming in, she couldn’t go out to DO any of them.

Hilde missed her freedom.

With this courier business, she was damn near tethered to the yard because she HAD to be present when the man came or else he was going to annoy her people.

Her people.

This would all be worth it as long as she could take care of her people.

Why was the protein cake so _small_?

“Stop your frowning.” The older woman pressed a wet finger between Hilde’s brows. “Your face will get stuck that way.”

Hilde automatically used the back of her hand to wipe the damp off, the focus of her worry still there in its tidy little package, _little_ being the operative word. She poked the unflavored vegetable protein. “But will it be enough?”

The other woman shook her head, chuckling in a rarely jocund manner. “You ask the same question every night.” Sure and steady callused hands washed and split the vegetables into colored lengths of green, red, and orange. “And each day after we have what we left the night afore. My brother’s in danger of developing a paunch!”

She smiled briefly at Niahm’s miming with the apron, an old and much washed piece of canvas that had grown soft as muslin over the years. Regardless of the apron, Niahm’s blue jeans were smudged with dirt from outside and the yarn of her dark green sweater held tiny leaflets in the weave from brushing against the greenhouse jungle. “But-“

The redhead put down the knife with a wry exhalation, frowning herself now. “…We have all made do with so much less.”

Hilde’s guts twisted. “I know-“

“-Which does not mean that you must share every morsel you have _as if you can reach back through time to fix it_!”

She thumped Hilde soundly on the head before the younger girl could duck, then ruffled her hair and affixed her in one spot so blue eyes had to look up into green. Niahm Harrigan, despite her day job (or perhaps because of its emotional demands), reserved her true gentleness for only a few chosen people.

Most of them lived within the scrapyard’s walls.

“Believe me, my sweet girl. You have nothing to fret over. You did not abandon us. Ever.” She kissed the crown of Hilde’s head, murmuring into the black hair, “You couldn’t stay, and that was that. We were only grateful there was a place like this to take you.”

Whether Hilde’s words were muffled by the embrace or raw emotion, it was impossible to tell, and she refused to think about it. “They would’ve taken all of us.”

Another sigh. “That’s as may be. It’s in the past now.” Niahm pulled back, green eyes glistening and hollow. “Gone and buried. As it should be.” She hugged her again. “Besides, in this other world you speak of, where you had us here, would you have ever met our boy?”

_“Our boy.”_

_She says it with such pride.  He’d be so embarrassed._

Hilde smiled a little, trying to rub her eyes though Niahm’s arms were in the way. “Probably not.” _I never would have done something so stupid as join OZ in the first place. So then, no lunar base. Probably no wartime Sweeper smuggling either…_

“Then God knew what He was doing. Trust the plan.”

She snorted. “Niahm-“

“Oh, pish. If you can’t get through your pretty head that you saved his life as many a time as he saved your own, I don’t know what to do with you. You just did it differently, with your kind heart and just by _being here,_ reminding him of why he fought. There’s some of us as needs a _purpose_ in the black of the night, and never is the need greater than in a soldier.” She raised an eyebrow, some of her chin-length hair wisping loose from the clip. “Besides, didn’t you half-build that Gundam of his AND feed the boy?”

Hilde giggled, relieved that the conversation was on more familiar ground. “Nia, he _paid_ for all of that, plus he did most of the work himself!”

“With Dekim Barton’s blood money, the scamp.” The Irish woman sniffed without rancor, a smile playing about her lips as she released Hilde and went back to chopping peppers. “Bloody feckin’ shameless of him.”

“That’s Duo.” Hilde shrugged, feeling a grin coming on.

“How dare he fight real battles rather than use his mighty death machine to rain down slaughter and revenge like the boy was told to do by a megalomaniacal bastard. Shameless _and_ disobedient, both cardinal sins for sure.”

“I’m sure he’d love to hear you say that.”

“Doan’t think I won’t.”

“Threat acknowledged.”

The chopping knife struck the block with a controlled snap, the older woman’s temper suddenly snapping in a far less controlled fashion. “And doan’t think I won’t give him a piece of my mind about this feckin’ _radio silence_ he’s put you through! Surely the boy can take five minutes out o’ saving humanity to let you know he’s not lying dead in a ditch!”

“Nia-“

“Makin’ you worry and imagine I don’t know _what_ kinds o’ dark fates ‘til you’ve been driven to leave hearth and home to search for the boy on the Blue Planet herself-“

Hilde spun, temper stoked. “NIAHM! That is NOT what the secretary position is about! I want to help KEEP THE PEACE, not chase down Duo while he’s busy doing the same thing! If the wars didn’t kill him, nothing on Earth or in the stars ever will because he’s fucking indestructible! I _believe_ that, and I am NOT worried!” She took a deep breath. “Do you think it doesn’t tear me apart to think about leaving you all?! Because it does! These have been the best months of my life, _having my family back_ , and I would never, NEVER give this up if I didn’t **_know_** leaving was the best way to build a future!”

Niahm crossed her arms, unimpressed. “One five-minute conversation ages ago convinced you o’ that.”

“It was an HOUR, and I’ve never met anyone so committed! All she ever does now is shuttle back and forth between Earth and the colonies, working!”

“And getting kidnapped by terrorists, don’t forget that!” A bright voice crowed from the kitchen door.

It was filled with smiling people of wildly varying heights and colors, from Flannery’s bright red head near the ceiling to little Miguel hanging on to Su Dzun’s hand for all he was worth. He’d inherited his mother’s large brown eyes and lush eyelashes, but keeping his own balance still eluded the toddler. Hilde had to restrain the urge to catch her godson before he fell on his face because 1) if he was constantly coddled, he’d never learn to walk on his own and 2) Big Sister Su Dzun wasn’t going to let him fall-- so long as he didn’t make the mistake of grabbing onto one of the looser Band-Aids on her fingers, anyway. Rosa didn’t appear concerned, so Hilde tried to take her cue with the children from her.

Mostly, though, Hilde tried to breathe. Niahm towered in smirking triumph, too smug to ruin the effect of her masterful distraction by saying a word.

“…How long have all of you been standing there?”

Paulie grinned, oversized gray sweater the same color as the oil smudges on his cheeks. “I like curry! Can we have curry?”

The beautiful woman next to him smiled and ruffled his sandy brown hair before stepping forward. Rosa held out an envelope, cream and simple. It was emblazoned with the seal of the Peacecraft Foundation. Nothing had ever come directly from the Foundation before. “This came for you today.”

Hilde took the envelope as if it might explode, and it very well could if it hadn’t come through legal channels. She moved closer to the window. “No courier?”

“A different one.” Rosa, who normally remained the most composed of all of them, blushed prettily. “He was very tall. Long hair so blond it looked white.”

_…Oh. Wow…_

_Must’ve been a prince in disguise…_

Hilde ever so carefully opened the envelope, blind to the expectant hush of her grinning housemates.

“…It’s a ticket to Earth.”

 

\-----

 

She’d made tentative preparations. Plans. But now putting them into practice was an effort against pure chaos and the race of time.

Hilde Schbeiker had never been the kind of businesswoman who wore suits; they were impractical in a scrapyard, difficult to keep clean, and the last time she’d worn something fitted directly to her body, she’d been an idealistic fifteen-year-old in an OZ uniform. 

Everything in her wardrobe now was leggings, t-shirts, and long sweaters- except for the only lonely navy suit she’d worn to meet Howard at the character witness hearing. It was constricting as hell; she had to sway her hips when she walked and kicking anything higher than two feet off the ground was an impossible endeavor unless she was willing to yank up the skirt or tear it. But she had to look like an eager young professional, so she wore it.

Fortunately, when breaking into the workshop to make an extra room for Paulie and Su Dzun, they’d found decades-old boxes of clothes and books obviously left over from when her grandmother and parents had lost the house to Alliance fighting. Some of the clothes were completely undamaged; Hilde recognized a number of them from old photos of her mother, who had been the kind of woman who never left the house without lipstick on. And really, a lot of the shoes were to die for, if significantly fussier than her normal steel-toed boots. From the way Rosa sighed longingly at the whole wardrobe, Hilde halfway wished Schbeiker women weren’t so insanely tiny so she could share, but alas, Anneliese had been petite with tiny feet. The only other person who could fit into Anna’s old clothes was Su Dzun, and she was having none of tailored blouses and bows. Hilde just gave the younger girl some of the sweaters she’d worn during the war, and the pugnacious youngster was happy.

If Hilde had been the kind of person to believe such things, she’d have thought the spirit of her mother was trying to help her, as the recovered clothes were perfect for the image she was trying to project: bright and capable without any sharp edges. Everything was beautifully tailored, and genetics had seen fit to bless Hilde with her mother’s measurements. It was a shame she couldn’t use any of the red, but she needed to fade into the background, not garner attention. There was plenty of blue and dark gray to make up for it, even one spectacular black suit that had the kind of long, tight skirt she sadly couldn’t use. Most of her mother’s skirts were either fully circular or bell-shaped, testament to the fact that Anneliese had valued freedom of movement as much as her daughter, though she’d been a dancer rather than a soldier.

Some days Hilde wondered if being more of a soldier instead of just a _fighter_ would have kept her alive. Probably not—the Plague would have killed her if the Alliance hadn’t done it first.

Hilde kissed the rings on the chain around her neck and tucked them into her blouse. They were thick, hefty things as rings went, more like graduation rings than the typical marriage bands, but her father had _made_ them and she was going to _wear_ them and _never_ take them off until she got down to Old New York, where Hans had been born. And then she was going to hold them up in sunlight filtered by an actual atmosphere and a little part of her parents could be on Earth together like they’d always planned.

Planet Earth.

Where there were flamingoes. Duo had always talked about the bright pink flamingoes flocking over Deathscythe (“Pink feathers and shit all over him, Hilde; it was totally NOT badass!”), and Hilde was finally going to see a flamingo in person.

Flamingoes!

But first she had to answer the last-minute summons to the Governor’s Office. Hell, she wouldn’t have even known it existed if Rosa hadn’t flagged her down outside the shower after she finally got back from that crazy 3am service call to Rooster's. That guy did stupid shit to his machines when he was high. How he hadn't lost a limb or crushed himself yet, Hilde had no idea, but she preferred not to be there when it happened.

She’d planned today for doing necessary errands, not pandering to politicians, and damned if Hilde was going to waste a pair of her mother’s gorgeous shoes on fucking Ormann, the man whose policy had induced her to register to vote the instant she turned eighteen just so she could have the pleasure of NOT voting for him. If she had to walk (run, really) half an hour out of her way and rearrange her schedule accordingly, she was wearing her boots. Hilde armored herself against the cold, noting with pleasure that the blue of her mother’s wool skirt was nearly in sync with the blue wool of her coat. She hadn’t known the skirt existed when she’d bought the coat: an unexpected link.

SO.

Casual clothes, no make-up, wildly static hair.

Yup.

She rammed the raspberry beret on her head and called it done.

“I’m leaving! If Dior calls asking where the hell I am, it’s the Governor’s fault!”

Su Dzun and Paulie threw her twin thumbs from the couch, where they were deeply engrossed in early morning cartoons. “Ganbatte ne!”

Satisfied, Hilde pulled the door shut, locked it, and wrapped the white scarf around her face. Snow made an ugly slushy mess of the scrapyard; and to think that only the night before, the piles of scrap had looked like pale gray mountains. L2 didn’t do the pure white snow her grandmother had described in stories about Schwartzwald. That was another thing she wanted to see in addition to pink flamingoes: truly white snow.

Everything was vaguely gray in the early L2 non-dawn. Somehow, either through magnificent stupidity or true sadistic brilliance, the atmosphere engineers had managed to create fog in addition to dirty snow. Traffic was going to _suck_.

Fearing Dior’s wrath far more than Governor Ormann’s displeasure if she were late, Hilde broke into a run.

 

\-----


	3. In Which Very Little is Accomplished, Much to the Chagrin of the Princess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Foreign Minister has a bad morning, in thirty minutes or less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Still don't own Gundam Wing.
> 
> Hello!  
> Dear Readers, please allow me to apologize for not posting much since the first two chapters; Real Life came into play in a big way. Yet also with Real Life came a new idea... Likely inspired by my own frustrations, though I am lucky my woes are not nearly so dire as hers. I present to you: Relena's chapter.  
> Many thanks to CH for the space elevator suggestion.
> 
> Music for Relena today has to be the Cardigans, "Explode" and "Erase/Rewind."  
> Yes, I may be laughing, but the Cardigans are essentially her spirit animal band.
> 
> Warning: In this chapter, spoilers and references abound for GW manga books Blind Target and Episode Zero-- Blind Target especially. Hopefully you've already read it!

~~~~~

**AC 199, January 25, 07:09. L1.**

 

Relena absolutely despised bomb threats.

Foreign Minister Darlian respected the very real danger such threats represented to the innocent public. Relena Peacecraft, Crown Princess of Sanq, always thought worriedly of her people having to adjust to yet another assassinated monarch and all the turmoil that followed. Even the ghost of Her Serene Majesty, Queen of the World, recognized with grave silence the violent passions of her fellow man once words were ignored in favor of weapons.

Relena, however.

Relena was developing a violent passion of her own: to find the bomb herself and throw it out the nearest window like the trash it was, hopefully right into the expectant face of whatever mentally-maligned miscreant had set the explosive in the first place and then set the Preventer agents stationed around her to frantically seek it out.

Not that she possessed the requisite skills to do so.

She listened to the footsteps scattering in both directions down the hall, restraining the urge to sigh.

Under previous protocols, the agents would have hurried her to the waiting armored transport or called for a helicopter to immediately remove their charge from the threatened hotel, but this new enemy apparently had closed off those regular avenues of egress and the best method to "keep the Foreign Minister safe" was to lock her back into the painstakingly swept and secure hotel room she'd been using for the past week-- with a strong warning to keep the drapes closed and not to turn on any lights that would leave her outline exposed to a shooter.

As if she had never been targeted by assassins- far more effective assassins- before.

So here she stood.

Alone.

In the dark.

Removed from her luggage, her briefcase, and her _phone_ \-- the last item on the off-chance that the villains in question could triangulate her location from the device's signal.

Every piece of technology that kept her productive was now irrevocably beyond her reach.

She looked at the beautifully soft futon bed (still cradling her teddy bear amidst fresh pillows) and sighed. Unlike most of the ESUN-approved hotels on Earth, which strove to echo the aristocratic heyday of Europe with high ceilings and extensive gilt, L1 Main's restrained approach to functionality and clean design reminded her of the elegant environs of Japan, particularly with the emphasis on the beauty of natural materials. Wood building material, of course, was nearly impossible to acquire on the colonies in large quantities since the few colonies dedicated to agriculture were still experimenting with the proper soil depth for multi-use species such as hickory and mulberry. Bamboo, on the other hand, grew even more voraciously in space than it did planetside with just as shallow a root system, and in L1's hotel, bamboo veneer stood proud against artfully textured concrete that had doubtlessly been mixed from moon dust. The artisan who had poured it had allowed a few bubbles to remain along with the occasional variegated stone telling the story of its provenance, and Relena loved every centimeter of it. Everything below the exposed concrete wall was smooth lines and gently rubbed bamboo corners, the beauty of imperfection celebrated among colony-grown linen curtains and mulberry paper screens.

Not ten minutes ago, Relena had regretted the necessity of leaving the serene sanctuary, but now that she was trapped within...

It was quite the lovely place to stay, but Relena had other places to _go_.

She listened hopefully at the door for approaching footsteps. None came.

The table clock read 07:11.

Giving in to the inevitable, she slipped her heels off, leaving them neatly on the presented shoe rack, and padded on stockinged feet around the futon. Pacing was a terrible habit for a young lady to develop, but standing silently at the door waiting to be informed of her own freedom made her feel even more useless than she currently was. At least a mild form of exercise injected a bit of utility into what might otherwise become a fruitless morning.

Relena did not hate many things (hatred had no constructive use), but she did indulge in a severe dislike of bombs.

Bombs were indiscriminate destroyers of life, limb, and architecture.

She had visited too many civilian hospitals and veterans' homes during her career to remain blissfully blind to the damage caused by shrapnel and falling debris, and if today's bomb threat was real and the charge powerful enough to crack the colony's shielding, she might live long enough to witness the horror of L1's inhabitants being sucked out of a vacuum breach, a sight Relena fervently hoped to avoid.

If a disjointed madman wished to make a political point, she much preferred him to voice his opinion with a well-aimed bullet solely at her person. Surely such an attack, if performed on live television, would be dramatic enough?

But no.

Apparently today's breed of terrorist delighted in collateral damage.

The constant posturing had gone beyond idiotic in April of 197, when a cadre of military men had crashed her birthday party with a _nuclear weapon_. The resulting radioactivity could have poisoned northern Europe for decades without the quick intervention of the Preventers.

Threatening an unarmed group of civilians was completely unnecessary. And, thanks to Lady Une's best five Preventer agents, completely embarrassing for the terrorist group, as they were quickly defeated without any casualties... Save perhaps the dignity of Agent Chang. Apparently Agent Maxwell had no dignity to injure- a fortunate circumstance considering his role in the nigh-unbelievable events of the day.

Thank heaven Dorothy and Mariemaia had also been there. The terrorists hadn't known what to make of Mariemaia, who careened from hysterical tears at being separated from her adoptive mother (Tears, Relena felt, the young girl manufactured for effect once she realized the former Colonel was going to be treated as the most dangerous member of the guest list.) to poking philosophical holes in the terrorists' declared manifesto whenever one made the mistake of explaining their views within earshot of the hostages. Meanwhile, Dorothy had always exhibited a surge of joy when facing down the barrel of a gun, so the novel experience of being held hostage alongside a banned nuclear device had made her nearly as unmanageable as Mariemaia. She, in classic Catalonia fashion, had demanded to _view_ the bomb, for one thing...

No doubt Agent Maxwell's unlikely advent as a "trigger-happy" member of the terrorist group had made perfect sense to the group at large, given such incentive-- Though what he later did to her birthday cake was completely uncalled for.

Relena smiled.

How fortunate that an event with so much potential for terror could now serve as a source of amusement.

Not every day ended so well.

Relena moved restlessly around the plush interior of the L1 hotel room, her suit still crisply pressed in preparation for the morning's (now cancelled) meeting.

The table clock read 07:14.

The new government, to the best of Relena's knowledge, had made every effort to welcome each faction from the war (and even groups from before the Eve Wars) into the political process at the Earth Sphere United Nation's very inception-- so practically all of humanity had a voice in the governing body.

She would be much happier if she could leave off the quantifier "practically," but the previous Foreign Minister Darlian had always stressed the importance of candor to Relena, and if she were to be perfectly candid, an alarming percentage of humanity refused to forgive the wounds of the past-- even if the act of forgiving meant there would be no more wounds-- and unequivocally denied any sort of cooperative endeavors. Most of these were colonies that had been perfectly self-sufficient for years until the rich moguls of Earth had sent various military forces to squeeze tribute from a people more concerned with preserving their asteroid shielding than lining the pockets of greedy old men on a giant ball of dirt and water thousands of miles away, while most of the Earth-based holdouts pointed to Dekim Barton's bloodthirsty actions as yet one more reason not to trust "spacers" who'd grown so distant from their mother planet they were willing to exterminate all life on Earth by dropping the asteroid MO-II during the Eve Wars. With the colony populations, Relena completely understood their reluctance to join, and she deeply hoped that ESUN's continued respect for these isolated colonies' autonomy along with positive experiences shared by ESUN member colonies would ease their minds. Regarding the Earth factions, gentle reminders of the Gundams' actions during the latter half of the war, particularly 01's blessedly well-publicized destruction of the dropping asteroid, usually silenced the more vocal detractors.

The people she couldn't understand were the ones still wielding violence as a tool. So many excellent men and women had died when the remnants of White Fang bombed ESUN's initial peace conference. L1's severe but dedicated Kaneshiro Aoi. Dr. Govinder Patel. Chau Xingmai. Vassily Petrovich Bolshev, a recent grandfather. Hundreds more, including innocent hotel staff.

All killed.

And for what?

An Earth-based weapons manufacturer who refused to alter his product to suit an age without war.

It was enough to make any sane person scream.

The fact that many colonies had publicly disavowed White Fang's aggressive stance had helped considerably to mend relations between Earth and space; however, Libra's one devastating cannonade upon Earth was still having drastic repercussions upon the planet's climate--likely to continue for many more years hence. Climatologists had already made comparison to the effects felt after the eruption of Mt. Krakatau in 1883 AD as well as the former US nuclear tests in the AD 1950's, and Relena dreaded the monthly radiology report from the oceanic crater that had once been a bustling island.

There had been _schools_ there.

Not anymore.

Never again.

She exhaled in a long, slow release, reminding herself that the past was the past.

Immutable and unchangeable.

Only the future held potential for change.

Not everyone approached the end of wars with a clean-slate philosophy.

It had taken so, so long to convince the people of Earth not to pursue the lingering members of White Fang for war crimes.

Only the belief that White Fang's leaders had died during the battle finally got them to agree to an amnesty for **_all_** the soldiers on **_all_** sides.

The Alliance- then OZ and Romefeller- had constituted such a huge military industrial complex, nothing less would have worked.

The colonies' grievances matched Earth's woes. Easily.

Before White Fang had appropriated the Libra project, Tsubarov's indiscriminate zeal to complete it had resulted in the callous theft of supplies and people from the colonies. He'd raided prisons, breadlines, the streets, even orphanages and private homes in search of forced labor to complete his massive space fortress _in a few months_. Even now, with the carefully compiled lists from colony resistance members who had tried to keep track of the conscripted, families were still coming forward, finally reconvening after the diaspora of war, all wondering the same thing: where is my loved one?

Then there were the cases of radiation poisoning and mutilation from unsafe working conditions among the Libra workers ESUN _did_ know about...

The only solution to the problem had been to assign committees with equal parts Earth and colonial members to investigate and document claims on both sides, with the express intent that the next generations would not have to endure the same anguish at the hands of their fellow human beings.

Relena would be damned before she allowed vengeful finger-pointing to grind the process of rebuilding trust to a halt.

The injured had to be cared for, the soldiers reintegrated into society, and the weapons of war repurposed into constructive material, especially with so much reconstruction to be done. There wasn’t _time_ for anger.

The table clock read 07:17.

Oh, if she only had her PHONE!

If an unknown enemy hadn't attacked already, surely she could at least arrange another meeting with the L1 Prime Minister, L3's Minister for Industry and Trade, and Quatre before she had to leave for Earth.

So much more could be accomplished with a face-to-face conversation rather than a conference call, and collecting multiple persons in one place still posed a problem, what with scheduling and travel conflicts. She wished to show as much support for Quatre's new project as possible while she was in the colonies, and no amount of words made up for the _physical presence_ of an Earth representative. And, as embarrassing as it was to admit, the presence of the former Queen of the World still held a certain cachet for many people. They assumed she had wielded far more power than she actually had, even with Romefeller’s pacifists behind her. Truly, Quatre’s position as the hereditary head of the Winner Corporation far outclassed her in sheer effectiveness. All she could add to his leadership was a sense of prestige and a sympathetic connection to Earth.

However, a sympathetic connection to Earth was exactly what Quatre needed in order to build colonial support for his space elevator, and Relena agonized over not being able to deliver.

Rearranging missed talks would have been the responsibility of her assistant, if she'd had one. Relena missed Chris in times like this, truly she did. But Chris had started her own political career, and that alone was worth celebrating, even if no assistant since had matched Chris's efficacy and attention to detail-

It had been very quiet for quite some time.

The blonde stopped pacing.

Still no footsteps outside. No knock.

Odd.

Also, no gunshots or alarms.

Uneasy now, Relena slowly backed onto the bed and pulled the stuffed bear into the crook of her arm. Childish as it was for a grown woman to cuddle a toy, the warm fur and plush softness of the teddy bear did provide a comfort nothing else could match. Perhaps the comfort came not so much from the bear itself as from the implied protection of the person who had originally given it to her- No. She had to be accurate: the person she _hoped_ had given it.

Relena had never been one to become overly attached to "things," as all things could be easily lost.

Yet.

Upon every trip since it had appeared in her shuttle, the bear was her constant companion. And no matter how hard the day, how grueling the discussion, how heartbreaking to face the families of the men her brother had killed during his career as a soldier, the teddy bear was always there.

Silent and waiting.

Just for her.

A solace.

Relena wasn't even entirely sure it was from _that_ person.

She had been so very sure.

Once.

Relena sighed and dipped her chin onto the soft head of her teddy bear. She would have felt more confident if Agents Dixon and Rossetti were coordinating the response rather than Agent Edwards, but they'd both been on medical leave since the beginning of January and Lucrezia refused to reveal why, citing 'necessary maneuvers'-- whatever that meant.

So here she was.

Arguably one of the most powerful and connected politicians in the entire ESUN government, royalty by birth AND by election, and no representative of the government she helped to **function** was communicating a single scrap of information to her.

Apparently she could steer the fates of humanity, but walking herself unaccompanied around a hotel on L1, one of the safest places to live in the entire Earth sphere, was impossible.

And she coped with her helplessness by hugging a teddy bear.

Ah, well.

She'd known well enough what sort of fate awaited those in the public eye after accompanying her father upon his many conference trips; young Relena had grown inured to the flashing bulbs of paparazzi, and grown Relena had the same reaction now to the gossamer lights of terrorist explosions.

Explosions were a thing that happened in her life.

How did that old quote go?

_"When my enemies stop hissing, I shall know I'm slipping."_

The professional world of opera had been no kinder to Maria Callas than the political horizon had been to Relena Darlian, but if the diva's experience formed any map of wisdom, it indicated that being inconvenienced by bomb threats essentially doubled as a vote of confidence that the right sort of wrong people were being annoyed by Relena's continued existence, even if said people were just overgrown children with access to C4.

Relena sighed once more and set the teddy bear aside, smoothing out the more rumpled results of squeezing it so tightly-

Wait a moment.

Had her bear been... lumpy?

Completely ignoring Agent Edward's admonishment to keep the lights off, Relena snapped the bedside light to brilliance so she could appropriately examine the bear. Upon closer inspection and a few more judicious squeezes, she established that the "lump" was centered in the rear-abdomen of the animal and someone had haphazardly sewed the seam shut with red thread that didn't even match the fur.

Oh.

My.

Bear in hand, Relena instantly picked up the bedside phone- and heard a dead line.

The table clock read 07:19.

Considering the eerie silence surrounding her, perhaps attempting to leave the hotel room would be unwise. Agent Edwards _had_ locked her in for her own safety, after all.

Nevertheless, Relena turned off the light and closed the distance to the door, grabbing her shoes from the shelf. Once withdrawing behind the concrete corner, she threw one shoe at the portal, causing a very impressive thump-- to absolutely no effect.

Either there weren't any Preventers within hearing distance, or any that could have been were dead.

Relena took a moment to examine the hotel's concrete wall once more.

This building was still technically under construction until a few months ago, which was why this week had been her first stay. The designated maid for her room, Hibiki-san, had had a son on the construction crew, so once Relena expressed an interest in the specifications of the building, Hibiki-san had eagerly shared details about the thick titanium ribbing and premium-grade concrete, everything strong enough to survive the rigors of a mobile suit battle even if a pair of MS blasted their way _inside the hotel_. It was a testament to the tenuous notion of the recent peace that the builders had retained such rigorous design specs when using peacetime-appropriate materials would have significantly reduced the building's cost. The key, Hibiki-san said, lay in allowing the excess force to exit the building via the windows.

Which meant they were designed to blast out.

Relena slid next to the lowest corner of the floor-to-ceiling windows and twitched the curtain aside so she could clearly see the rear end of her teddy bear. L1's artificial morning light slowly filtered in between other skyscrapers; she briefly thought about signaling for help, but these, too, were under construction and unoccupied. She stabbed the stiletto heel under a lax stitch of thread and yanked sharply. Something popped, and that area frayed loose, white stuffing trying to escape. Relena worked steadily with the sharp heel to pull out the cross-hatched length of red, leaving half alone once she could wiggle the dark obstruction out. It was a small box, but likely too big for the job as it was easily twice the size Lady Une's compact had been. Obviously the device didn't work on a pressure trigger as she'd been touching it constantly, so likely a timer or a remote would cause the explosion, if indeed the little box constituted the bomb.

By now, Relena had exhausted the entirety of her knowledge regarding incendiary devices.

She frowned against the cool glass, possible bomb in one hand and hollow teddy bear in the other.

Most terrorists in her experience chose either a number of significance or the turning of the hour for the explosive moment, though there were some who preferred the half hour mark, which didn't bode well as the table clock currently read 07:23.

Best use her seven minutes productively.

Relena carried her two burdens towards the closet. In a gesture of whimsy, the builders of the hotel had included a purikura picture machine in each room (conveniently located near where most guests could change clothing) with the ostensible reason as providing guests a tangible souvenir of their stay. If the machine shared vital characteristics with the models popular in Japan when she'd been a schoolgirl, not only would it produce a physical strip of pictures, but she could mail the data to another phone.

Hopefully the terrorists hadn't considered female vanity in their calculations.

Clutching the teddy bear inside her suit jacket in the distant hope that it wouldn't lose any more stuffing, Relena opened the purikura cabinet and examined the direction plate, gratified to discover that it was a top-of-the-line model with exactly her requirements. She positioned the box (possible bomb) in front of the camera's eye, choosing the standard background setting, and turned it in various directions for each snapshot. Ah, she could even write a message when she sent the pictures- and she could send them to up to six recipients with the hotel letterhead as a frame. What a souvenir.

Relena took the stylus and jotted quickly in a margin: "Found, Room 1409."

For time's sake, she sent the evidence to Quatre (if anyone else could do more with five minutes and the mere photos of a bomb, Relena would eat her suit) and to Noin, in case nothing could be done and the forensics team needed a platform from which to start the investigation.

That done, Relena exited the purikura to retrieve a pen from the desk. The hotel had provided lovely silver pens with just the right flow of ink- gorgeous. Pure metal rather than a plastic reproduction, they fit beautifully between one's fingers, and she’d noted the manufacturer with the express purpose of ordering some for herself later. Relena disliked the notion of disassembling one, but during the photo session she'd noticed a screw panel on one of the sides of the box, and surely if she were about to die, using her last few minutes to sate her curiosity justified the repurposing of at least one pen.

Depositing her bear in the relative safety of the concrete closet, Relena collected the physical purikura strip to place it in the closet too-- She noted with absent dismay that the fraction of her face one could see around the box in the picture looked extremely annoyed rather than frightened, as if dealing with a threat to her life had become a commonplace occurrence rather than a matter of life and death.

Well, hadn't it?

Relena supposed for appearances' sake she ought to indulge in a nervous breakdown later (if she survived), but at the moment there were no other options than to hope Lucrezia managed to evacuate the other guests and kept Hibiki-san safely beyond the blast radius.

She used the purikura screen to provide enough light to perform the necessary function of opening the box. She'd spent enough disobedient hours as a child playing in her father's office that disassembling the pen to retrieve the metal filaments within was the work of a moment; far more difficult was maneuvering said metal into the screw grooves in order to get the screws out. She had managed three screws before she looked up and the time was 07:29.

If it were a device akin to what had killed her father, the thick hotel walls possibly could protect her. Anything else, and she would die.

Given that the bomb hadn't previously shown any sensitivity to pressure, Relena threw the rectangular object with all her might at the gap in the curtains in the off-chance the heft of the bomb would carry it through.

It struck the glass.

**_Crack._ **

Then it fell to the floor half a meter from the sill, rolling once.

In hindsight, Relena supposed that any attempt by herself to emulate Lady Une's insane physical prowess was doomed to failure from the start.

She ducked into the closet with the teddy bear and the evidence, not particularly caring if her charred bones were found with such accompaniment, and counted the seconds.

The half hour mark came and went, though for the sake of caution, she left leeway for incompatible timepieces.

The table clock read 07:31.

Oh how nice.

The bomb would explode... later.

After all the morning's fuss, the alarm of her Preventer agents, the interruption to her schedule, and the ** _violation of her teddy bear_** , the looming time of the explosion as yet remained a _mystery_.

Relena attempted to force the door. She cried out for help.

No result.

Fully irritated now despite the internal voice admonishing herself that she'd only sent the notifying mail to two pertinent parties six minutes previous and losing her temper at such scant provocation was entirely unladylike, Relena retrieved the box from the carpet and returned to the purikura light to remove the fourth screw on the metal rectangle (stripping the attachment apparatus in the process). She peered into the depths of the intruding box.

Ah yes.

Most certainly an incendiary device.

She sent more pictures of the confusing mass of cylinders and wires inside, trying to document as much as possible before she finally fulfilled what had suddenly become her dearest dream: throwing the bomb out of the window.

Grabbing her forlorn shoe at the door, she strode to the edge of the room with excavated bomb in hand and yanked the curtains open. Any sniper would have had an excellent shot.

She set her shoe upon the table (its match still lay sadly next to the window, a scant filament of red thread caught on the heel) and fell to her knees, feeling on the glass for the spot where she'd struck the surface with the box. There was a slight chip in the surface nearly a meter from the ground. Despite the bomb's hardiness so far, using it as a hammer (though cathartic) posed an obviously unwise option. The box exchanged places with her shoe on the table, and Relena whacked the stiletto heel experimentally against the chipped glass, smiling when more fractured glass fell out. Her shoes were true stilettos, with a metal last for shape and a steel nail in the heel to provide support. She'd have to get the plastic nub on the bottom replaced after this, but it was for a good cause.

Breaking through also would take too long with only these tools; the glass was far too thick.

Shaking her head, Relena set her shoes neatly in front of the futon and removed her suit jacket, ensuring her hair was fully tied back and out of the way by slipping the ponytail down the collar of her shirt. That done, she shoved the bomb-laden table away from the window's chipped area and hefted one of the lovely metal chairs she had admired so much during her stay.

Violence beget so much destruction.

She slammed the chair legs-first into the damaged glass.

 

~~~~~


	4. Great Gears and Little Pins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to L2's Governor, Godfrey Ormann. He is not a nice man. Likewise, Hilde is not in a cooperative mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings and Salutations! It's been a long while, and this is a LONG chapter. I blame Ormann; every time I thought the chapter was nearly done, there'd be another transition that wasn't quite right or a gap in dialogue that didn't flow. What a slippery customer. I'm calling this chapter Good Enough. So.  
> Another good title for this bit would be Exposition Central; hopefully the way I've done it (with little peeks here and there) will be enough to keep the information interesting. Also, if you are young and impressionable, or have parents who think you are, please be aware that there is strong language in this chapter. There are also references to legalized marijuana use and a happily married gay couple... Because this is the future and such things are likely to be normal.
> 
> Music!  
> “Metropolis” from the OST of the 2001 anime movie, based upon Osamu Tezuka’s manga that was inspired by Fritz Lang’s 1926 epic masterpiece… All called “Metropolis.” I'm also fond of George Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue" being an informal theme for L2 at large.  
> “Von” by Yoko Kanno featuring Arnor Dan. Yes, I know I’m cross-contaminating my anime, but it’s –Yoko Kanno- and her work is utterly brilliant. “Music from a cold place” indeed. The lyrics somewhat reference Edvard Grieg’s “Into the Hall of the Mountain King,” which tune was used for GREAT thematic effect in Fritz Lang’s “M,” starring Peter Lorre. Originally called "Murderers Among Us," the nascent Nazi party forced a change in title because they thought the "Murderers" in the title referred to them. Ha. Both Lang and Lorre escaped Nazi Germany soon after completing the film.

**AC 199, January 25, 07:09. L2.**

 

Hilde was late.

BUT, it didn’t matter, because Governor Ormann was also late. In a Very Important Meeting.

Which he had had scheduled for months before he decided to call Hilde Schbeiker to his office on an early-morning whim.

When the lady at the front office had told her _that_ (all while giving dubious glances at her appearance), Hilde knew she had multiple options as to her future behavior once the arrogant scumbag showed his face, but the heart of each decision’s outcome would start right here, with the elegantly dressed and mature receptionist, who was important enough to merit her own brass nameplate upon a refined silicate desk.

So.

“I’m so very sorry for the miscommunication, Ms. Tsourekis. I had assumed the early summons implied a level of urgency; otherwise I would have dressed more appropriately.”

Already the lady’s frosty demeanor had started to thaw. Time for more truth.

“I rescheduled my appointments for today to make room, so I couldn’t really…” She gestured towards herself, inwardly clapping when the receptionist looked at first chagrined, then sympathetic. “Do you think I might…?”

“Yes, of course. The governor will be ten minutes at the very least.”

Ten minutes!

Hilde suppressed the urge to ram right through that door and give the so-called governor of L2 a giant slice of her mind. Instead, she bowed gracefully and demurely like her grandmother had taught her when the family had attended the tanabata festival at school. The gorgeous kimono from that day was as long gone as her long hair, but she still had manners enough to shame the thoughtless governor. If she ever did manage to become the Vice Foreign Minister’s secretary, animosity with any political leader would only be a hindrance to the real goal. Even if the bastard deserved it, right now she was still so much small fry, and the more humble she acted, the better.

Honestly, she had hoped to fly beneath his notice.

Maybe she could encourage him to be further dismissive.

Hilde ducked into the women’s restroom and took stock of what she had to work with after such a frazzled morning. The beret went first, shoved into the messenger bag. After that, she ran water through her hands and rubbed a tiny dab of lotion between them. That done, she stroked the dampness into her hair to calm the static without going too greasy; under this attention, her hair behaved less like an assortment of gangsters and more like a class of chastened children. Next, she brushed on powder makeup with a lightning touch, fluffed on enough blush to look girlish, and applied mascara and a lip tint. Now she looked ‘professional.’ The heavy burgundy sweater she’d worn against the L2 cold also went into the bag, leaving her with the swing-y blue wool skirt and a sky blue shirt she’d belted into a peplum style for Dior’s benefit, and the change from dowdy underage blue-collar worker to eager young secretary applicant was complete. Too bad she hadn’t worn a suit jacket, but the sweater had been the warmer and thus the more practical choice. Finally, she used a towel to wipe all the salt streaks from her boots.

She unobtrusively walked back to the brass bench and folded her hands in a demure knot in her lap, calm and fidget-less. This composure earned her an impressed nod from the lady manning the desk.

Duo probably didn’t have to go through this insanity. Of course, he was a guy and a respected Preventer, plus he’d been born with the kind of perfect looks that would make a movie star swoon. Doors didn’t close on him now; they automatically opened.

Then again, he definitely wouldn’t have bothered with the polite waiting routine even when he was persona non grata back in the war; if some arrogant jackass had tried to jerk Duo Maxwell around like this, said jackass would suddenly find an extra person in the locked conference room making pointed (and accurate) commentary at inopportune moments.

She stared pensively up at the wildly ornate ceiling (Freakishly tall and far away from her lowly bench- Good grief, Colony Center was huge.) while she waited.

Duo had to be okay, wherever he was.

Noin wouldn’t have smiled otherwise; she was notoriously protective of her people, particularly the Gundam pilots. Ironic, considering it was rumored that a Gundam pilot had been responsible for bombing the cadets under her care when she’d been an OZ instructor.

Hilde sighed.

No, not ironic, just indicative of Noin’s capability for forgiveness in the face of the ugly realities of war.

Way back when Hilde had been young and stupid, OZ had shown the colony volunteers a grainy picture of a green mech in the distance while describing the incident, plus a great deal of much clearer photos of the carnage left behind. Obviously, that part of the OZ debriefing had been designed to engender hate for the “enemy,” but a few years ago Hilde had done a little research (when Duo wasn’t around) and every foul fact from that day was absolutely true. Every name, every death, even that one fourteen-year-old kid who’d been excitedly following the footsteps of his two older pilot brothers--neither of whom survived the war. She’d immediately erased the computer’s Net History listings and tried to fill it up again with a slew of inane shopping websites so if Duo checked behind her he wasn’t forced to see anything, but her brain hadn’t been able to delete the images at all. That little kid had been closest to the bomb when it went off; he’d been blown in half.

Fuck OZ for using his death as propaganda.

Fuck Operation Meteor for using a bunch of kids to kill other kids.

Duo put on a good face, but he kept quiet about enough of his time on Earth that Hilde could read between the lines. She didn’t pry, only supported, and in return, Duo felt safe enough to… imply. He wasn’t about to go and do anything as direct as what Yui did by going door to door with a gun and a sincere offer of justice to the families of the dead, but his work as a Preventer was a big part of a similar self-imposed penance. She’d tried to convince Duo that he’d done enough by leading humanity to a final peace, but Dekim Barton and every usurping bastard after him had put the lie to that hope.

Thank goodness Noin was an equal opportunity den mother.

If how she’d acted on Peacemillion was any indication, Noin treated the whole pack of pilots as people first, soldiers second. Duo needed that more than anything, the affirmation that he was a person, not just a number. Or even worse, unwanted and nameless.

Duo had to be okay.

Blinking, Hilde fished in her bag for a handkerchief. Yet one more thing she hated about extreme cold; it always made her tear up. Add in the fact she was actually wearing mascara today, and if this stupid water didn’t stop, she’d go in to the governor’s office with runny mascara, which would be a truly _joyous_ continuance of a bad morning. It wasn’t like the governor was the type to feel guilty for making the little girl cry.

Then again, it might make him think less of her. Maybe if she just smeared-

The thick oaken door (Wood! Real, thick, old-growth wood! Somebody must have paid a pretty petty to import it from Earth.) opened and spewed forth an assortment of important-looking people in flawless suits. Hilde sat up straight, the dabbing at her eyes forgotten while she watched the faces for features she recognized from newsfeeds. Ok, that was the Finance Minister, and the squat tubby man next to him was some kind of hedge fund guru. There was a redheaded lady talking to a handsome older gentleman with white sideburns who was probably Acacias Dalton, the mining investor, and then there was a pointy-faced man in mostly black who appeared to be sucking something sour. She recognized him from the background of many of the governor’s press conferences- he never smiled. Usually he was most stoic whenever Ormann was being particularly grandiose; Hilde felt some sympathy for the man. Behind him was a quiet gentleman with round glasses, listening intently while what appeared to be the Attorney General of L2 discussed lunch plans.

Hoping they wouldn’t notice her, Hilde focused on looking pert and eager just in case they did.

The only one who did notice was the brown-haired man in glasses (early-thirties, medium build, left-handed if the pen was any indication), who spared her no more than a quizzical (if vaguely friendly) look before the group of VIP’s were collected by their respective security details. Hilde pretended to examine her makeup in a compact (She owned a makeup compact now. Ugh.), but she really was watching the security personnel, who honestly were just as, if not more, interesting than their charges. About half had the gait of ex-military about them, though Acacias Dalton had procured an intriguing combination of martial artists for his group. If the short guy to Dalton’s right wasn’t a Muy Thai practitioner, Hilde would eat her beret. He moved too gracefully to be anything else. Ten points for Dalton.

The hedge fund guru, on the other hand, had chosen big clunking dudes for his security. She could practically see the guns underneath their suit lapels.

Hm. Just bad taste, or a little bit of paranoia?

She refocused her attention to the actual mirror. Her makeup hadn’t run. Good.

Hilde snapped the compact closed and slipped it back into her bag with the handkerchief, ready to get this meeting over and done with. Dior was going to have a fit if she didn’t have a warm body to stick pins in for as long as she desired, and Hilde absolutely _had_ to meet the lawyer at one o’clock to clear up some important matters regarding the scrapyard before she left for Earth. She had no idea where her phone was-- hadn’t for two days-- and if it didn’t turn up soon she’d have to purchase a burner. Ugh. Then there was the appointment with the coroner…

She suppressed a yawn, mentally searching for some kind of gap in the day when she could grab breakfast before any food consumed would more accurately be termed “lunch.” She usually kept a few granola bars in her bag for emergencies, but Rooster’s early morning problems had depleted her supply as well as set her entire schedule wildly off-kilter.

Every six months or so, that guy would get it into his head that growing his own leaf would be more cost-effective than procuring it through an experienced farmer like everyone else had for the past hundred years, and he’d cannibalize bits and pieces from his poultry feeding apparatus in order to make the Ideal Cannabis Farm. Then, once the birds freaked out (or he came off his high- whichever came first), he’d call the first number on his list to fix his fuck-up, which sadly was the scrapyard’s emergency line- in Hilde’s bedroom. Whenever Rooster WASN’T stealing their rightful water pipes in order to make a jumbled-together grow bed for marijuana seed, his birds (a motley assortment of chickens, turkeys, ducks, and pheasants) were among the most spoiled life-forms on L2, and any interruption to their carefully regulated and cosseted day was occasion for truly epic avian outrage.

And all the volume that that implied.

Also. The retired Sweeper kept his birds as cage-free as the colony environment would allow, so that meant the spurred cocks ran _free_ in the massive enclosure and would viciously defend their territory from any incursion by outsiders.

They did not like Hilde. Or Flannery.

Even Rooster himself used a chain mail suit when searching for the eggs, long experience and a missing finger joint having taught him a lesson that sadly hadn’t extended to his more fanciful flights of financial creativity. Armored by a welding suit against flying talons, Hilde had been forced to crumble bar after bar of granola and toss the treat to the birds as a distraction while Flannery fiddled the machinery back into place and Rooster (who was thankfully sober at this point) helped him.  Ever since his husband had passed away last year, Rooster kept indulging in more and more strange, vaguely self-destructive stuff. The semi-annual catastrophe had been ever so slightly easier to address with Harvey there to help corral the birds so they didn’t get hurt (The birds had absolutely adored the jolly white-haired man.) and avian husbandry had been far more Harvey’s passion anyway. Hilde made a mental note to ask Howard what to _do_ and to send Su Dzun and Paulie over to the egg farm later in the day to check on the fix. One, she wasn’t quite sure if they’d managed to return each bolt to the proper positions under the neverending barrage of feathered rage, and two, once you got Rooster around a pair of constantly curious kids, the two generations tended to keep each other out of trouble.

Given a human audience, the skinny old mechanic started sharing the wisdom gleaned from 60-odd years of Sweeper life, and you couldn’t pay for that kind of education.

Rooster had supervised Hilde’s first teardown: a busted-up space Leo her Aunt Kvista had illegally pulled from the edge of a mine field. They’d been way off in an abandoned colony at the time, far beyond any Alliance attention, but the spectral fear of discovery had only added to the thrill of exploring all those clanking parts and hidden mechanisms. Under Rooster’s patient tutelage, Hilde had learned to work clean and to work _fast_ , both skills that took her through the war and out the other side.

Even without Harvey and Kvista running commentary from the sidelines, time spent with Rooster would only be good for the kids. Paulie tended to get bogged down in specific details while Su Dzun often jumped two steps ahead without thinking of her current task; put the two together and they either balanced each other out or crashed at loggerheads.

Recently, it had been loggerheads.

Rooster would tell her if the kids had potential- Hell, she _knew_ they had potential. It was the potential to not kill each other or Flannery (or herself) while they were working that she cared about.

At the very least, Rooster could set Su Dzun to chasing chickens, and maybe she’d be too tired to argue with Niahm once she got home-

“Miss Schbeiker?”

Hilde snapped to attention, mortified that she’d allowed her thoughts to wander so far. “Yes, Ma’am.”

Ms. Tsorekis didn’t seem to think less of her, merely smiling and gesturing towards the door in an obvious invitation for Hilde to follow. Hilde couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d seen Ms. Tsourekis before. Probably on newsfeeds. “The Governor will see you now.”

Hilde willed herself to look excited and perky.

Examining her surroundings helped.

Colony Center had been built back in L2’s heyday when the first asteroids had been successfully harnessed for their minerals and one lucky bastard found one laced with gold and rare crystalline structures. After the massive influx of prospecting immigrants _that_ triggered, L2’s able-bodied population tripled, making mass-mining projects a reality for the first time. Prior to that, L1 had been the favorite colony for first-time spacers: it was closer to Earth and the moon acted as a shield against space debris. Lagrange Point 2, by contrast, was pretty exposed. Her father had told her (long ago) that they’d melted down the unusable bits of the first asteroid in a solar furnace to make the blocks for Colony Center, but they didn’t bother to fully extract all the gold dust first. Viewing the obsidian-black slabs up close while she passed through the ridiculously expensive oaken door, there _were_ little sparkles… Cool.

“Ah! Miss Schbeiker! Welcome, welcome!” The Governor’s smile, true to form, was utterly dazzling. Perfect white teeth above a cleanly pressed navy pinstripe suit. Perfectly trimmed dark brown hair with just a hint of pompadour to keep it from being too conservative. Very shiny shoes. Pristine. Nothing like her own boots, with their gouges, scuffs, and salt stains. Those shiny shoes had probably never walked the L2 streets at all, much less in the middle of a slushy blizzard. Governor Godfrey Ormann was a fifth-generation colonist, descended from one of the first investor families with the guts to move where they’d put their money. They’d taken the private cars with them, of course. “I thought you’d never arrive!”

Oh BOY was Hilde glad she could hide a little behind the taller figure of Ms. Tsourekis. She needed the space to keep her composure. It didn’t last long, though, as Governor Ormann reached out and took her hand in a strong, emphatic handshake-- So strong, in fact, that the motion set her messenger bag to thumping against her skirt.

Say what you would about L2’s current governor, he certainly wasn’t reserved. Godfrey Ormann had practically built his career on being gregarious rather than effectual, something that bothered Hilde on a fundamental level. True, he did have a chemical engineering degree, thus meeting the basic Constitutional requirements for L2 Main having a scientist in the most powerful position of L2’s government, but anybody could tell that it was a desultory degree, obtained only to further his political career.

“ _So_ nice to meet you, young lady! But if you will wait just a moment-“ The governor released her hand with a smile, turning to Ms. Tsourekis to bring her up to speed with whatever had been discussed during the previous meeting.

Reading his inattention as further dismissal- _exactly what you want Hilde don’t get insulted_ \- Hilde stepped back from the two political professionals and feasted her eyes upon old-school L2 grandeur, not caring a whit if she resembled some backwater twit. Nobody was watching.

Steel.

Titanium.

Brass.

The whole office was a glittering jewel of space-made obsidian glass and smoked ceramic tiles, everything arranged in black and glass and flashes of gold geometry. The colonists designing Colony Center had wanted to resurrect the glories of America’s industrial age, so they’d built their seat of government with so much Art Deco optimism that Hilde halfway expected Jay Gatsby to come waltzing in the door with a flapper on each arm. So what if some of the tiles were cracked and other parts of the design had lost the intended luster? The massive fan-shaped windows behind the governor’s desk were pure works of _art_ ; Hilde hadn’t seen space-glass of so many different textures before in her life, but she recognized by the thickness of the central panes that the governor’s office constituted a bona-fide life pod. Colony Center _had_ been built back in the early days after all, when the asteroid defense systems were still in their infancy and it wasn’t unheard of for a perfectly good colony to get utterly perforated. That meant ALL the glass in the windows was space-grade, and the mechanic in Hilde itched to examine the windows further, if only to see where those first colonists had managed to hide the solar shields in the design.

They HAD to have solar shields; colony radiation shielding back in the olden days sucked, but they tried.

Which was why only _some_ sixth- and seventh-generation families were still experiencing birth complications today- if they weren’t completely sterile.

Seeing that the two adults remained occupied, Hilde edged surreptitiously around the oaken (Again, wood!) conference table and peered out one of the bordering windows, keeping a respectful distance from the behemoth of the governor’s desk. No reason to snoop; she was just looking. If it was as old as the windows, it was probably attached to the floor in case of gravity loss. It might even be a control console for the eventuality of the life-pod disengaging from the Colony Center proper… That would be SO cool!

She wondered if Governor Ormann, with his dusty unused chemical engineering degree, ever thought about how fantastically magnificent his office was. The man and his ageless secretary were deep in conversation: policy this, preferences that… Best five-star restaurants in the Center District. Probably not.

Hilde took a moment to mourn Dr. Patel, who had been one of L2’s leading biochemical and civic engineers; he’d actually _designed and built_ two beautiful, efficient colonies from the gravity anchors up before coming to L2 Main to work on the combined air-scrubber-agricultural towers that occupied the central spokes of L2 Main’s “wheel,” thus making the air significantly easier to breathe. Reportedly you couldn’t leave him in a room alone with a malfunctioning apparatus; he’d been a compulsive innovator and was obsessed with every aspect of living in space from the glory of the sun’s corona powering solar cells to the intricate details of the colony waste-management system, and his enthusiasm for the people who made it all work totally ignored any sort of social class assumptions. He’d won the post-war election in a landslide.

And then Dr. Patel had attended the first ill-fated peace conference between the colonies and Earth, leaving L2 with Vice Governor Ormann, who cared far less for “welfare issues” than he did for the continued cultivation of L2’s economy and stature.

Fucking White Fang.

She was glad she’d stolen the plans to their fortress. Even if it meant that she’d spent the last weeks of the war being yelled at by Duo in a Peacemillion hospital room.

And being visited by Quatre Raberba Winner, who was the only other person with type O negative blood on the whole ship aside from some dude with a cold in Bay 3. His visits were lovely, but Hilde was too mortified to look him in the eye at first. Quatre Raberba Winner, the absolute richest guy in space, period, whose family could trace their bloodlines back to deep-rooted Arabic _royalty_ , and who was brilliantly fighting a war for humanity’s sanity, genuinely cared about a stranger’s well-being so much he had immediately volunteered to give her blood. Her! Little nobody Hilde Schbeiker, rookie MS pilot who couldn’t face down two stinking mobile dolls without getting her ass handed to her so bad she cried to Duo for help… Quatre outclassed her on so many levels, but the first thing he did when she woke up was thank her.

He thanked her for the plans to Libra.

At least she’d been able to return the favor a little, after HE’D been stabbed.

Everything was total fucking chaos then, with Peacemillion evacuated and her broken ribs hurting like hell as she tried to stay out of the way of people able-bodied enough to be useful. Somehow she’d ended up in a mass of concerned Maguanacs while more of their number pulled an unresponsive Quatre out of Sandrock with the near-frantic help of Duo and the dreamy acrobat Gundam pilot. She could barely remember the worried faces surrounding Quatre at that moment; she had only known that he couldn't be allowed to die there, the heart of that strange little family bleeding out beneath his Gundam, not while she could do something about it. So she'd babbled something incoherent about the nutrient content of her healing body being pretty superb according to Dr. Po's own tests, and apparently it had been enough to make Sally Po yank her into a more suitable position to act as Quatre's blood bag while the good doctor saved his life. Hilde was particularly proud of the fact she didn't pass out until Sally started sewing him up.

Not only was Quatre’s stab wound a full-through puncture, but he’d continued to fight at total force in Sandrock until the war was over; he and Hilde ended up side by side for a few days while Quatre recuperated.

The first thing he did when he woke up was thank her. Again.

Then he apologized for putting her to the trouble of giving him blood while she was still recovering. He devoutly, emphatically, sincerely apologized. As much as his wounds would allow him to do. He was adorable.

Duo was right; Quatre really was the sweetest guy alive.

She’d been devastated when the news (False, thank goodness.) came out that Quatre had died in the explosion with Dr. Patel and the other peace delegates. And when Duo dropped off the grid too, and those creepy guys came sniffing around the scrapyard…

Not that she’d ever tell Duo, but she’d spent a couple nights sleeping under Deathscythe’s cloak with her gun in one hand and an extra clip in the other. It just felt safer.

Now the big mech was long gone, and his pilot too, and the scrapyard just didn’t feel secure, despite her best efforts. Not for the first time, Hilde felt a stab of panic that her current ambition to work with the Vice Foreign Minister would leave the people at the scrapyard exposed.

Hilde sighed.

The curve of the colony wheel bent too far from home for Hilde to see the scrapyard from Governor Ormann’s office, and even if she could, it would just be a tiny speck from this height. A faraway colony of ants, all busily going about their tiny ant lives. Was that all that the colony looked like to the Governor from up here?

She peered at the digital clock on one of the blimps- God! She HAD to get back to her own tiny ant life ASAP! Could he not hurry UP?!

“Ah yes, Miss Schbeiker!”

Speak of the devil. The Governor handed off some leather-bound files to Ms. Tsourekis, gesturing for his visitor to come back.

“No need to be shy, my girl!”

And no need for him to treat her like she was 11.

But okay. Hilde could work with that. All she needed to do was look cute and act stupid.

Naïve.

Naïve came to her naturally, sadly enough. “Yes, sir? Are you ready for me?”

“Of course, of course.” Ormann waved his secretary off; Hilde couldn’t tell whether he was talking to the lady or to her.

By Ms. Tsourekis’ expression, it could be both. Her job obviously came with some drawbacks along with the outrageous salary and prestige. She nodded in Hilde’s direction, silently indicating that the best policy was to be tolerant of the Governor’s behavior. Then she gave Hilde a little wave and shut the door, locking an unknown quantity alone with the most politically powerful man on L2.

Hilde made a mental note to never do that to the Vice Foreign Minister if she managed to get the job. Contrary to Governor Ormann’s boorishness to the common folk, Relena Dorlian tended to piss off real crazy people with access to explosives.

“So wonderful to meet you at last!“ The Governor pulled one of the conference chairs from the table for her. Well that was unexpectedly considerate. “Please sit, Miss Schbeiker. My secretary tells me you have an appointment later today-“

Hilde could kiss Ms. Tsourekis, honestly she could.

“-So I shall endeavor to be brief.”

She obediently settled in the chair before Governor Ormann’s massive desk, totally conscious that she’d been put in the ‘interview’ position. And he took the larger, more powerful ‘interviewer’ position behind his desk, his elegant suit forming a dark silhouette against the foggy L2 morning spread out in the windows. It was starting to snow again.

“First, may I congratulate you upon your success so far? Not many of our young people have shown such an interest in current affairs.” He smiled warmly at her over laced fingers, steel-blue eyes and aquiline nose suddenly sharp. “When my friends at the embassy notified me that one of L2’s own had passed the examinations, I just had to meet you myself…” He looked her over the same way Ms. Tsourekis had done before, though he didn’t bother to hide his doubtful expression. “You intend to celebrate with a new wardrobe, I hope?”

Ugh.

“My first appointment after this is with a stylist, sir.”

“Ah, excellent! If you’re not pleased with the results, please see Ms. Tsourekis for a list she can recommend.” Dior would _murder_ Ormann if she’d heard that. “We can’t have a representative of our great colony looking like a lost little waif- charming though it is.”

“Of course, sir.”

“And your, ah-“ He made a gesture to his forehead and back to hers, as if suddenly remembering that personal comments were frowned upon at first meetings.

“My hair, sir?”

“Indeed.”

“That’s another stylist later today.”

“Oh! Very good.” The Governor smiled at her with cosmetically perfect teeth. “I can see you’ve thought ahead. Very, very good. You have your tickets and you’re all packed?”

“Aside from what the stylist gives me today..?” What the hell? Did he call her ALL THE WAY to Colony Center for a fucking LAUNDRY LIST?

“Excellent. Exactly what I’d expected. This will be the first time a member of your family has gone _back_ to Earth, won’t it, Miss Schbeiker?” The pale blue eyes smiled innocently. “So surely you are excited.”

Hilde froze.

There, on Governor Ormann’s desk, under his fist, was a pale manila folder with the red seal of the Embassy on the cover, red ribbons and cord interspersed among the papers therein.

There was absolutely no way her Embassy file had gotten out of the gates, even to someone as high up as the Governor of L2.

Surely.

Friends or no friends, the background check in her file was supposed to be _confidential_ , kept purely as ESUN intellectual property… At least until (if!) she got the job, then parts would become public record for the sake of transparency. God, the agony and the worry she’d gone through once the background check started had turned her into a snapping, twitching mess, even among her housemates who’d lived through the worst parts of the gaps with her and understood why she was acting like a hormonal bitch.

Plague kids. They were all Plague kids.

In space, with all the radiation and exposure to unknown biological elements on debris, anything could happen. The L2 Plague had been the worst natural disaster to strike the colonies, a nightmare out of a horror story, like influenza and ebola had a mutant baby that ate away at your insides and turned your lungs to black sludge while a rampant fever cooked your brain. In the confines of a colony, it morphed from being spread only by contact with bodily fluids like blood and spit to being airborne, and the L2 colonies had been _decimated_. The only thing that had saved the other Lagrange points from the same fate was distance; most infected refugees died before they could complete the trip around the moon to L1, plus by that point the Alliance was involved and had no intention of allowing the Earth’s closest colony cluster to become a diseased mass. They incinerated every ship that wasn’t Alliance.

Some people could survive it. A very, very few were naturally immune.

Hilde just had a vaccine scar.

All her housemates had a vaccine scar-- even Duo, though he’d gotten his by very clever theft.

Hilde did not want to talk about herself with Governor Ormann.

“Yes, sir, I’m very excited! I’ve never seen the ocean before, or the sunrise, or real clouds! I mean, we’ve got films, but they’re not the same, sir.”

He chuckled at her enthusiasm. “No, no, they’re not the same at all.” He winked. “Just wait ‘til you watch a sunset planetside. You’ll be stunned at the complexity of colors.”

“I’m looking forward to it, sir!”

_Shut up and let me leave._

“There’s no reason for you to take my word for it, Miss Schbeiker. Surely you’ve heard stories from your grandmother or father-“ Her father and maternal grandmother had both been first-generation colonists, dammit. “-Or perhaps your compatriot Duo Maxwell of the Preventers?”

Oh _hell_ no.

The Governor paused in opening a pair of round-rimmed reading glasses from his jacket pocket, too-canny eyes watching her expectantly. If he thought for a _minute_ that Hilde was going to tell him _shit_ about Duo, the poncy rich boy had another thing coming. Maybe she shouldn’t have coerced Duo into taking the educational equivalency exams with her a few years ago; too many people had seen them be chummy, and it wasn’t like Duo could work his amazing hacker skills on people’s brains. Denying that she knew him at all wasn’t going to work.

Now was an excellent time to use the Boys Make Me Lose Twenty IQ Points Technique.

It was as good a crutch as any and cost nothing but a little self-respect… Okay, a LOT of self-respect. But owning up to her life choices during the war as bona-fide political statements rather than the actions of an enamored groupie was not to be countenanced in front of this guy. Commander Une knew. Lieutenant Noin knew. If the Vice Foreign Minister remembered her, even Relena Dorlian knew. Nobody else needed to know.

Happily, Duo’s inordinate level of attractiveness justified the loss of about fifty IQ points, which could go a long way towards excusing plenty of the stupid decisions enumerated in that file if her audience saw enough evidence of starry-eyed breathiness beforehand. 

Nothing was more useless than a silly little girl with a crush.

Hilde clasped her hands together, sighing dreamily with her head tilted to the side. “Agent Maxwell?”

_Think of chocolate and how much it makes you drool- NO, think of those stupid leather pants he wore and wore until he finally grew out of them! And the T-shirt that was too small for him because our laundry got mixed up_...

Yay, she could feel the blush already. “…We’ve lost touch, I’m afraid. It’s been over a year.”

The Governor looked unconvinced.

“Truly, Governor, you’d probably know more about what the Preventers do than I do...” Hilde allowed just a frisson of hopeful curiosity to enter her tone; according to Duo, nothing made someone clam up faster than the implication that _they_ knew more about the subject of questioning than the person they were questioning did—

Bingo.

Judging by the Governor’s carefully suppressed irritation, he HAD met Duo at least once, and it hadn’t been pretty.

Hilde held in a grin, cherishing it deep in the depths of her heart where Ormann couldn’t see. Maybe Duo actually _had_ slipped into a locked room with the Governor and a bunch of cronies, causing much-deserved havoc? More likely it had been something on a professional level where Duo had not bent over backwards to keep the L2 Governor pleased. Maybe this whole ridiculous meeting between the Governor and herself was just Ormann’s attempt to get some dirt on L2’s most famous Preventer?

Probably.

For a while there, Commander Une liked to trot Duo out for sound bites, so Agent Maxwell had developed quite the swooning following. There were fanclubs. Websites. People even drew comics, they loved him so much. Given the Governor’s obvious proclivity for the trappings of prestige, a hot young peacekeeper that made no bones about being L2-born would’ve been a natural addition to his circle of glittering friends… But Duo wasn’t the type to come when called.

Oh man, she was going to have a lot of fun trying to guess what happened.

Papers shuffled on the Governor’s desk as he opened the file.

Shit.

“Nevermind that, Miss Schbeiker. I’d like to get to know _you_.”

Ugh, he _had_ been trying to get a hook into Duo.

Governor Ormann smiled his best press conference smile. “The real, honest, unadulterated Hilde Schbeiker… You’ve led quite the busy life, young lady. Really, I’m impressed by your moxie! Just think, a tiny teenage colonist volunteering with the OZ pilot corps right at the beginning!” He winked at her. “Bet you gave those Earth boys a run for their money, eh?”

She relaxed a little more with every oblivious word coming out of his mouth. It couldn’t be the full Embassy file, then. She’d seen her own OZ record briefs. Although every reference to a Gundam pilot was redacted all to hell until Hilde’s military records looked more like a stripey black blort than actual paper, Colonel Une had made plenty of other, later, observations that wouldn’t elicit this chuckling response from the Governor.

Even now, Hilde still wondered why she hadn’t been executed. She’d expected to be.

She laughed weakly. “Oh, Governor Ormann, you’re too kind… I wasn’t cut out for the military.”

He waved the explanation away. “Still, you tried! That’s more passion than most youngsters exhibit today. So what if you failed at one dream? Never apologize for idealism! The desire to serve the public good can never be twisted, Miss Schbeiker; it is the purest impulse of all good colony citizens.” He gestured to the paper in his hand. “Even if your abilities fell short in the end, these early recommendations are absolutely glowing!”

Hilde bit her tongue and remembered to smile.

“Now, let’s see… You washed out of the Specials, but that didn’t keep you from flying- You’re a member of the Sweeper Organization?”

“Yes, sir.”

_And I know for a fact that Howard thinks you’re an ass, but he retired to the Earth tropics permanently after the Eve Wars, so L2’s gotta shift for itself now. Our current semi-leadership thinks the Sweepers got too political for our own good during the fighting, even if Howard did pick the right horse by supporting the Gundams. Nobody messed with you when you succeeded Dr. Patel, but a lot of us are pretty pissed about your current policies. You’re up for re-election in what? A year? Are you gonna bank on the refugee vote or depend upon investor money to stay in office? Or are you going to do what L2’s governors have always done, which is try to keep the Sweepers silently noncommittal?_

“I understand that you have your own registered scrapyard. Very impressive for one so young.”

Now THIS was inevitably public record as far as L2 was concerned, and Hilde didn’t have time to just answer question after slow question, especially about her name change. Also, the less time she spent with the Governor where she could ream him out for making her day-to-day career difficult, the better. “I inherited it from my adoptive parents, the Solvigs.” She sighed. “I hated to leave their name behind, but it was the best way to link all my records for this opportunity.” Even the OZ records, dammit. Redacted or no, they were still embarrassing as hell.

“So you’re a businesswoman.”

“It’s doing well enough, sir, but I wanted more of a challenge.”

The Governor laughed. Actually _laughed_. Apparently pragmatism was the right answer. “Ambition is nothing to be shy about, Miss Schbeiker- Ambition is what first took us from a ball of dirt to the stars! The drive for something more is what keeps humanity moving forward-” He gestured towards the curving wheel behind him. A blimp stirred a flurry of snow in its wake. “-Just like our colony. Always moving.”

Hilde could counter that the whole point of L2 turning was to provide centrifugal gravity so its citizens could keep their feet “on the ground” and the colony itself never really went anywhere (otherwise it would be sucked down by the Moon’s gravitational pull or crash into another colony), but she didn’t think the Governor would appreciate her interpretation of his metaphor. Gods, she was hungry.

“Now, if you don’t mind, I had my people do a little digging about you before that unsightly gap in the record, but I want to hear what you think.”

Oh no.

“Sir, my background has already been extensively verified-“

“Shhh, we have to get through this information quickly, before your appointment. Remember, all sorts of people will be interested in you once you come to prominence, not just myself. Their sources may be unexpected,” He said like he was the most important personage among the vultures. “It says here your father disappeared one day and left the family flat.” He raised a quizzical brow in her direction. “That must have been terribly traumatic.”

Hilde kept her hands calmly unfisted in her lap and shrugged, trying to think of how she could defend her father without seeming too invested. Ormann must have purposefully misunderstood her file—either that or he was TESTING her, and Hilde would be damned if she let him manipulate her. But fuck this guy if he was going to paint Hans Schbeiker as anyone less than the loving, loyal man he’d been. “No one knows exactly what happened to him, sir.”

“That generally happens in matters such as this.”

The twin rings lay heavy and hot over her heart with each thump.

Her mother had spent endless days sobbing and trying to wash the ashes out of the engraved design of _his_ ring, the grey-filled box it had been delivered in bolted tight and too high for either Hilde or Ingrid to reach in the strange, significantly smaller apartment Anneliese had bundled them to in the middle of the night. The only things familiar about the place had been a small stack of her father’s books and the family picture next to them.

Hilde kept her eyes large and smile sweet.

“Sir, he didn’t leave us penniless; he’d saved up a little and Mutti worked.” She allowed a mild reproachful tone to enter her voice. “Most women do.”

Governor Godfrey Ormann stared at her like she’d grown a second head.

Hooray.

But was it because she’d thrown a spoke into his narrative or did he really think women were merely ornamental, because if he did and that attitude got out around L2, heads would roll. Also, how had he forgotten that she RAN her own business?!  And this moron was the governor of L2?!

Surprise aside, he recovered quickly, clearing his throat and looking suitably grave. “Mm. So few records from that time still exist.”

_Because when OZ staged its coup on Earth, half the Alliance forces battling up here burned the records before OZ could use the proof of the Alliance murder squads as a political bargaining chip. Then again, that’s just my opinion because there aren’t any fucking records. And I was a fucking kid, so who cares about what I remember._

“And then your mother died during an uprising of dangerous elements that destroyed the entire block, in...” He peered at the address and sighed. “…The Reclamation Zone.”

“That was before it was the Reclamation Zone, sir.” She might as well use the polite term for Reconstruction Alley, too. Since they were already using polite terms for everything else. ‘Uprising of dangerous elements’ was pretty much code for ‘Alliance occupation forces wanted to cut loose and civilians got killed.’

Hilde stared at Ormann in silence.

He was way too young to have been a collaborator, right?  His home colony had been famously neutral while most of the colonies around it got feisty, so maybe he’d never had a bad experience with the Alliance? And not all Alliance soldiers had been complete bastards, although the ratshit behavior of the guys on V08744 was so legendary that Hilde had originally assumed Duo took the Maxwell name as a badge of vengeance as a Gundam pilot until she learned he’d actually lived at the church. Duo’s recounting of the Maxwell Church Massacre didn’t leave anybody looking good except the Father, the Sister, and the innocent people caught between rebel forces and the Alliance. They’d only gone there to attend Mass…

“Don’t I know it,” Ormann muttered, shifting papers around. “That crime-infested rattrap kept growing every year until it was nearly unmanageable-“ He apparently remembered he had an audience and stopped the thought, smiling for her benefit. “How fortunate your grandmother was able to take you in, for however briefly. The Plague hit that sector particularly hard, I’m told.”

Hilde held on to her cute, slightly vacant expression with every molecule of her being.

“Yes, sir.”

_I’m sure you were “told.” With your perfect, safe job in Colony M99168, the only damned colony that completely shut itself off from taking in Plague refugees whether they were sick or not.  How many healthy people suffocated to death outside your colony because your people wouldn’t even send them supplies when their ships broke down?_

“And your sister?”

Hilde’s heart cringed, black memories of panic and fever and desperate neighbors rolling in like solid nightmares.

“Why did she not survive?”

It had been years since Hilde had felt such a visceral need to murder someone.

_No._

_You do not deserve to know that._

_You, with your goddamned perfect suit and perfect cosmetic smile and perfect conservative hair, you do NOT deserve to know how my baby sister_ -

Make this as short as possible. “Ingrid’s vaccine didn’t take, sir.”

“Ah, shame.”

He looked away to shuffle the pages back into a semblance of order, dismissive. “She was in the unfortunate 30th percentile. It must have been so devastating for your grandmother, to see her last efforts wasted. I’m surprised an aging woman on a junior telecommunications technician’s budget could afford even one vaccine in the early days of the Plague.” He regarded her gravely. “I am so sorry.”

**_FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU-_ **

Hilde took a shallow breath. “Thank you, Governor. People will do almost anything for the ones they love.”

“True, true.” He clasped his hands behind his back, turning to observe the curving wheel of buildings spread out below the massive window. “We are at the dawn of a new age of prosperity and growth, Miss Schbeiker. The colonies of Lagrange Point Two have opportunities now that we haven’t seen in decades, but to bring our full potential to fruition, we must pull on that resolve you speak of to reinforce our position in the ESUN government. You, as our colony’s sole candidate for such a key post, are uniquely positioned to help usher in L2’s continued importance. We deserve to take a more prominent role on the world stage.”

He was referring to Quatre Raberba Winner’s space elevator project. Ostensibly, the Winner Corporation had finally perfected the high-tensile carbon cables that would be necessary to make such a device possible, and every colony with an in-sight Earth orbit was abuzz with the news. L2 was also abuzz with the news, but secondhand, as the primary communications relay scattering the signal around the moon from colony to colony. As the only colony cluster trapped on the far side of the moon, a space elevator to Earth wouldn’t have an immediate impact on the L2 economy. Ormann likely felt left out.

Boo-fucking-hoo.

Hilde didn’t trust herself to say anything aloud, instead sitting up attentively with wide eyes.

This apparently was the correct response, because Governor Ormann continued meaningfully, “The Vice Foreign Minister is a very important personage in the political world- as you know- and she has put significant weight behind this new idea from L4-“ He paused, blue eyes blinking behind the round lenses of his glasses. “Surely you’ve heard of it?”

“The space elevator, sir?”

“Exactly that.” He leaned over his desk again, likely a position intended to emphasize his personal presence by adding the massive bulk of the desk to his own, but Hilde was too busy thinking about shoving him through the window to do more than look impressed. “The war may be over, Miss Schbeiker, but the civilian casualty list still isn’t complete! Our government cannot afford to be distracted by such an expensive and potentially vulnerable project. Too many colonies were rendered inoperable by wartime maneuvers; we need to focus our efforts upon making them operational again to prevent overcrowding-“ He emphasized his words with a tap on the desk. “-Here at home.”

…What?

“Surely you’ve noticed the extreme influx of refugees from L5 and L4 in the course of your work at the docks?”

Yes, and she loved their food. Mrs. Ming’s dumplings were exquisite little bundles of pure steamy heaven, and the Hassans down the street would pay her with sauces sometimes while Rafiq got used to his prostheses… Was the governor of L2— **L2** \-- seriously implying what she thought he was implying?

“It’s understandable; a number of those colonies were utterly destroyed in the war and our, ah, standard of living here is more conducive to families trying to recover-“ It must’ve _killed_ him to get so close to saying ‘space on L2 is cheap.’ “-But we’re practically being overrun by people who refuse to learn our language!”

_WHAT language? They don’t call L2 the Tower of Babble for nothing; everybody speaks at least three! English, Japanese, and whatever was popular wherever the hell they came from! If you don’t understand something, chances are you can ask someone within five feet of you to translate!_

“Of course, L2 is a haven to all, of course, of course- but we can’t perform a background check as thorough as this-“ He lifted the Embassy file as an example. “-For every new inhabitant coming through our ports under current ESUN policy. Dignitaries like the Vice Foreign Minister could be at risk from dangerous elements hiding among the innocent. Surely you remember that much from your time as an OZ volunteer. Security is paramount to progress.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t follow- How can I be involved with security?” She cocked her head to the side again, eyes as wide and questioning as she could make them. “I’ll just be arranging the Vice Foreign Minister’s schedule and trying to keep her visits comfortable.”

_Oh hell oh hell oh hell, if Ormann somehow found out that Noin was the one who suggested I do this-!_

“Miss Schbeiker, as secretary to the Vice Foreign Minister, you’ll doubtlessly be shifting through her correspondence, attempting to find- “ He paused thoughtfully, searching for the correct term. “-The most _essential_ matters for her attention among all the chaff. A secretary is responsible for the _secure_ flow of information…” A pause. “You’ll have her ear.”

It was so _difficult_ to maintain a believable balance between eager and dense that didn’t betray her indignation.

“Her ear, sir?”

Was it Hilde’s imagination, or did the Governor sigh just a little bit? “She will listen to you.”

“Oh, I’m not equipped to steer policy, sir!” Hilde giggled, as if it were a quaint idea rather than totally abhorrent and unethical.

“I’m not suggesting _you_ are, just that you will have opportunities beyond the masses to point out certain… flaws. Drawbacks, if you will. Unintended consequences and different opportunities brought forward to you by real experts. You’re a woman of the street- I can tell- and the Vice Foreign Minister may turn to you for insight on what would be best for the colonies.” The tall figure of L2’s Governor smiled down at her, a flurry of snow behind his back. “Just remember the welfare of _your people at home_ , that’s all I ask.”

Right.

Somebody had checked out the inhabitants at the scrapyard, too.

They’d be stuck here on-colony while she was thousands of miles away.

“If you ever need advice in that regard, or if you discover data during the course of your work that you don’t understand, please know that your local representatives are always available for a consultation-”

The snow outside fluffed and roiled in the upper-level drafts of L2.

“-Though please keep your contact discreet.“

Hilde mulled over this quietly.

The Governor smirked and resumed his seat, shuffling papers back into the file. “Such a pleasure to meet you, Miss Schbeiker! With your deep ties to the colony, I’m certain our future will be in good hands.”

She smiled, nodding happily in blatant gratitude and pride.

Oh yes.

Most certainly.

BUT.

“Why discreet?” Big blue eyes could be weapons of mass innocence. “If I have an honest question, shouldn’t I contact someone directly for a quick resolution?”

Now the Governor looked shocked, pausing in his task with a sudden sharp intake of breath. He peered at the impressionable young girl over the frames of his glasses. “…That would be inadvisable. In fact, I would suggest the Internet as the most readily available source for clarification, since most of your time will be spent upon Earth; colony leaders do not simply sit around twiddling their thumbs upon Earth time, you know.” He raised a finger. “However, if a need should ever arise from your home colony, I trust in your patriotic sense of duty to see it through.”

Hilde looked confused. “But sir-“

“Miss Schbeiker. Didn’t you have an appointment to hurry off to?” He tilted around to look at the window’s view. “Good luck. It’s messy out there.”

Apparently this was her dismissal.

“Oh yes, sir! Thank you for thinking of me today!”

Hilde rose from the chair under the approving gaze of the Governor and shuffled the seat quickly back to the conference table, retrieving her coat and her bag-- still stuffed full of the sweater along with all the study materials she’d grabbed to prepare for any actual _governmental_ questions the Governor may have asked. She’d memorized all five original charters of the colonies, the ESUN Articles of Consolidation, Earth lists of peerage appointments and precedence, plus all kinds of subtle etiquette apparently still in use down there...

Hilde had no intention of leaving yet.

She swiftly pulled the sweater out by one sleeve to put it on, spraying pencils and assorted small notes all over the floor in a chaotic clatter. “…Oh! Oops!” Kneeling down to retrieve them created a new angle by which Hilde could surreptitiously tip out the bag without Governor Ormann being able to see. A fat library surplus book tumbled out with a thump. “I’m such a—Sorry…”

She listened intently for any sound that wasn’t her own “frantic” attempts to retrieve the spilled objects. She heard a sigh, a real sigh, then silence. Finally, the gears of a chair and reluctant footsteps as the Governor came to survey the damage. Unwillingly, the Governor knelt down to help her corral an exploded box of paper clips.

If they’d been on the street, now would’ve been the ideal time for the pickpockets to rush him.

“Governor, please, I really do need your guidance—”

“Oh?” He looked pleased, though harried.

“How does the Vice Foreign Minister take her tea? I hear she’s very particular.”

Governor Ormann looked less pleased. “I’m sorry?”

“Her _tea_ , sir.” Hilde fidgeted, for the first time since entering Colony Center, every inch an average eighteen-year-old girl, the kind _without_ a silver spoon or an extensive pedigree like the other secretary candidates, some of whom had already enjoyed considerable press time. “Her background is so refined and elegant, and mine is… Well… I don’t want to make a mistake.”

Governor Godfrey Ormann stared at the girl seated ungracefully in the midst of a small circle of studious debris. She’d flopped down with one arm in the sweater and a scuffed boot crushing a piece of notebook paper so badly it had torn.

Hilde Schbeiker smiled hopefully up at him.

Whatever confident light he’d previously contained in his eyes died. “…I believe that is a matter upon which you may consult Ms. Tsourekis.”

VICTORY.

“…Ah.” The outer Hilde Schbeiker cringed with shame, quickly shoving the assorted mess into her bag without attempting to keep it organized, she was so eager to leave the scene of her mortification. Under the curtain of her hair, Hilde scrunched up her eyes, face crumpling with concentration. She’d been able to cry on command once; Duo had encouraged her to practice often, declaring it an essential skill... And THERE went the waterworks! “Yes, sir…” The key to veracity lay in trying to hold it back once you started. Small-voiced, she murmured, “So sorry to bother you over something inconsequential, Governor Ormann.”

“Please don’t apologize, Miss Schbeiker.” Brr, the chill in his tone could rival the stabbing cold outside. “You have other places to go.”

_Maybe NOW you’re sorry you bothered ME. Arrogant bastard. What a waste of both our time._

Nevertheless, Governor Ormann did offer a hand to help her up before ushering her quickly out the door- so fast she didn’t even have time to adjust her sweater before he practically slammed the door on her back. Wow, for a man who obviously cared very much about appearances, you’d think he’d be a little more aware of how a disheveled (and tearful) girl exiting a one-on-one with him in his office would look.

Ms. Tsourekis was aware; she looked alarmed—and not a little angry.

Hilde decided she liked Ms. Tsourekis very much.

So much so, that it seemed to be in the best interests of everybody involved to let Ms. Tsourekis off the hook about any alleged “impropriety.” Hilde bit her lip in what passed for a brave smile, wiping away tears with one hand while shoving the other into an empty sweater sleeve, a true feat of object juggling, considering her coat and messenger bag were still draped haphazardly upon her person, and rushed across to the silicate desk.

The Governor’s secretary, bless her, came around the furniture to meet Hilde, dark heels clacking hurriedly on the floor tiles.

“I dropped my bag,” Hilde confessed before Ms. Tsourekis could make a difficult inquiry. “Things spilled _everywhere_. And then I asked-“ She gulped air in an effort to calm down. One drawback towards getting in the Crying Zone was that the physical symptoms of it sometimes took over one’s body for real. Especially when she was tired and hungry like this. “-Stupid, _stupid_ questions—I’m afraid I made a terrible impression, Ms. Tsourekis.”

Dark brown eyes searched her own with genuine concern. “Are you sure that’s all, Miss Schbeiker?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Well.” The elegant woman looked relieved. Apparently Ormann was a first-time offender regarding a crying girl, so at least he wasn’t _that_ kind of sleazy politician. “If you’re sure… The Governor can be quite brusque. It is not a personal mark against you.”

_Lady, if you can endure that attitude every day, you have more patience than me._ “Oh? That’s… good, I suppose?”

“Mm.” Ms. Tsourekis reached for a disposable tissue upon her desk, coming back with three. “Don’t let it spoil your day. The Vice Foreign Minister makes the final decision about her secretary, not our governor. She is the one to impress.”

Hilde dabbed at her eyes, calming down considerably. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Anytime, dear. Is there anything else you need?”

“…The Governor said you had a list of stylists I should use?” She might as well show willing if Ormann bothered to check up on her movements later, plus Dior would enjoy an enumeration of rivals to blow out of the water once she got established.

Shaking her head about something private, Ms. Tsourekis resumed her customary position behind the desk and printed Hilde the requested list, enclosing it efficiently in its own new folder. She handed the package across the desk with a perfectly manicured hand, admonishing under her breath to minimize echoes in the great hall, “Please do not feel under an obligation to use any of these individuals at the Governor’s behest. The Vice Foreign Minister values tidiness in one’s appearance, not expense. You already have the right idea.”

Hilde took the folder gratefully, though most of the gratitude came not from the list but from the fact that the lady was being so _nice_. It seemed so odd, coming from somebody in Ormann’s camp. “You’ve met her, Ma’am? What’s she like?”

_What’s she like **now**?_

Was the Vice Foreign Minister still the same as the cordial girl on Libra? Though her comportment back then had veritably screamed Rich Family, her frank attitude was refreshingly normal to Hilde. You say what you mean and you mean what you say. Pretty basic.

Except, you know, to people who could constitute a threat. Relena had backed her up when a real White Fang officer wanted to know why the Earth girl wasn’t walking around with Catalonia and Hilde bluffed she’d been assigned as an escort. Relena’s pert fake irritation at being “apportioned a babysitter by my brother” was beautifully huffy, too. If Hilde’s nerves hadn’t been twanging on edge, she’d have clapped.

Hilde really, really hoped the Relena from the war was the same Relena Darlian today. If Hilde was about to spend the next few years serving as a 24-hour human shield to a limitless drama queen like Ormann, she’d rather slit her wrists now.

Ms. Tsourekis smiled without the veil of politesse she’d kept constant through Hilde’s (admittedly) short acquaintance with the woman. So this was her at-home, not-in-the-office smile: bigger, warmer, with more laugh lines than careful restraint. Hilde found herself smiling in response almost involuntarily. “Vice Foreign Minister Darlian is the kind of person we need for our future.”

Oh.

OH.

NOW Hilde remembered where she’d seen Ms. Tsourekis before! In the campaign coverage right at the beginning of AC 196, while she was laid up with broken ribs and Duo wouldn’t let her do anything but veg out on the couch! Ms. Tsourekis’d been right there, beaming just like that, on the platform when Dr. Patel gave his acceptance speech after the election! Hilde hadn’t even put two and two together until Ms. Tsourekis smiled, she’d changed so much!

Of course, her name hadn’t been Tsourekis back then; it had been Sanjay. Mrs. Sanjay had been _Dr. Patel’s_ chief policy compliance officer. For years.

Never missed a day of work in all that time until a few weeks before the peace conference-- she’d contracted a case of the flu so bad the doctors wouldn’t let her leave the hospital in case it was the Plague resurrected, so she’d been trapped on L2 fighting pneumonia when Dr. Patel and three members of his cabinet were killed in the bombing.

If Dr. Patel’s personal assistant endorsed the Vice Foreign Minister-!

The secretary to the Governor of L2 held out her hand to Hilde. “Good luck, Ms. Schbeiker. I shall follow your progress with interest.”

Too stunned by her realization to refuse the handshake out of respect (Hilde really ought to have bowed to her), Hilde blindly took the hand of the woman who had been integral to the construction, population, and smooth running of two glittering colonies, a feat akin to being a god. Or at least a high-ranked choir of angel. No wonder L2 Main hadn’t blown up with Governor Ormann at the wheel, if one of Dr. Patel’s best people was still hanging around mitigating circumstances. Hilde wondered how many of Dr. Patel’s non-publicized supporters had managed to stay on; obviously she had a lot left to learn about the political intricacies of her own colony.

Hilde bowed a reverent goodbye (before she genuinely embarrassed herself) and resumed armoring against the cold, half elated that she’d had the chance to meet such a person but mostly disgusted with her own inattention and Governor Ormann’s ridiculous request. The sensor doors opened onto the frigid L2 day, shocking her to resumed alertness. At least the snow had calmed down during her encounter with Ms. Tsourekis (Sanjay. Eee!).

She took a deep breath of the bracing outside air. It couldn’t be called “fresh” by any stretch of the imagination, but at least Governor Ormann hadn’t breathed this batch yet.

What a slimeball.

If the Governor ever called her into his office again (Hilde hoped he didn’t.), she was bringing a recording device. There had to be an immediate way to let Lieutenant Noin know about Godfrey Ormann’s undue interest in the Vice Foreign Minister’s messages (and the whole ridiculous business with the Embassy file- fake or not fake?) without contacting her directly and blowing the whole “secret” aspect of the secretary position…

Howard.

She was going to call him anyway once she got back home, and as long as she used Sweeper code while they talked, even if the scrapyard was monitored by Ormann’s little listening creatures, they wouldn’t understand.

Howard was going to be _pissed_ when he heard about the disrespectful way Ormann had referred to the Schbeikers, especially Hans.

He’d _liked_ Hans; Howard hadn’t thought too highly of any of Anneliese’s early boyfriends, and apparently Hans’ dry extolling of the many non-virtues of same (plus Anna’s insane behavior during these relationships) had won him serious brownie points up to the point Hans sheepishly asked Howard for permission to date the young lady himself… Much to Howard’s completely unsurprised merriment. The Solvigs may have been Anneliese’s godparents, but Howard-- If you were a Sweeper, or a relative of a Sweeper, or a good friend of a Sweeper, or just hung out with Sweepers long enough that you were _practically_ a Sweeper, Howard came with the package as a kind of tech-obsessed patriarch. He knew everyone’s business and he always kept in touch. Always. He’d been SO amused that the ferociously feuding cousins had decided to literally “kiss and make up”... Anneliese had insisted he be the one to give her away. Hilde had the wedding pictures.

Damn, damn, damn.

Maybe she could leave the part about her family out.

Howard blamed himself for their deaths, she knew he did.

Like, if he’d tried harder to assure the Schbeikers that their little girls could have as rich a childhood as one on L2 Main, he could’ve convinced them (and other Sweeper families like them) to go work on Peacemillion as the Solvigs had, and then no one related to the Sweeper Organization would’ve been on L2 when the Plague hit. Or the months beforehand, when the gears of the Alliance ground the Schbeikers to dust.

But Peacemillion hadn’t been gravity-ready back then.

Humans in their formative years needed the resistance of gravity to grow strong bones and muscles, to develop normally. To learn to walk. Even adults in zero-grav needed extensive exercise _every damn day_ to prevent bone loss and weakened muscles unable to support their body weight once gravity was restored; raising kids in zero-gravity would have just been _asking_ for problems. So everybody with children stayed where the gravity was: on a colony.

It wasn’t Howard’s fault.

An entire generation of L2 Sweepers just… wasn’t there anymore.

Except for a few.

And now even Peacemillion was gone.

Dammit, Howard had _earned_ his retirement in the tropics with the other aging Sweepers; Hilde didn’t want to ruin his paradise with stories of Ormann being a jackass. However, the governor’s slithering worried her. She’d have to take more defensive measures before leaving… The extreme ones.

Her lawyer was NOT going to like it.

She rammed the beret down around her ears and started running for Dior’s place.

Late again.

~~~~~

Author’s Second Note: I would just like to take this space to say that Duo and Hilde’s relationship at this moment is one of my favorites. Duo Maxwell, though conspicuous in his absence, is both her best friend in the world and the Worst. Possible. Influence. Can you, dear readers, imagine what shenanigans he must be up to right now?

They are BRILLIANT shenanigans.

Also, I love Howard. A lot. He is officially Everyone’s Crazy Grandpa.

I am extremely sad that this extra bit of backstory for him could be extrapolated from the one-sentence blip of Duo’s backstory referencing Solo and the deadly fever (This whole fanfiction is a meditation on L2 Plague, actually.), but it makes sense in this universe. Ugh, L2 Plague SUCKS. I haven’t pinned down the actual math for it yet, but the sickness killed millions. Possibly tens of millions. One guess why space on L2 is so cheap.


	5. In Which the Princess Continues Unsupervised in the Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hour of Eight approaches...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  So... 2017 was _2017_.  
>  To those still reading, my deepest apologies regarding the delay in updates. 
> 
> ...My deepest, deepest apologies go to Relena, however, who has been stuck in a state of Perilous Limbo(TM) for a year and a half while I tried to coerce Catherine into telling me her innermost emotions. Relena's chapters (for this part) have been ready for months.  
> She's the prepared student out of this group.
> 
> Annoying her makes me smile so much.
> 
> Music: NHK Blends' cover of "Smooth Criminal." Because we're still on L1 (Space Japan!) and it's a gorgeous interpretation.

~~~~~

**AC 199, January 25, 07:39. L1.**

The window cracked from side to side, the chair she'd used as a battering ram hanging by one leg through a hole the size of her fist in the fractured glass. Unfortunately for Relena, the hotel window had been significantly thicker than she'd thought: nearly a whole handspan.  


Well, of course. The hotel had been built to exacting standards by people preparing for an MS fight. She was just lucky they hadn't used space-grade glass; otherwise, the chair could've worn down to a nub before breaking through.  


Relena's aching fingers clutched the seat-back tightly while she raggedly attempted to catch her breath.  


She was tired.  


She was sweaty.  


She was possessed of an inordinate desire to throw the piece of furniture _entirely_ through the window, followed immediately by the bomb, now that the glass was weakened.  


Yes.  


YES.  


A thousand times, YES.  


However, the sane part of her mind recognized that urge as an ill-reasoned one, and sanity (despite countless efforts by persistent outside forces) still ruled Relena's world.  


She paused to take stock of the situation.  


The window had not fully shattered yet. Most of her hair had worked free of her collar during the initial period of exertion; she'd given up attempting to stuff the tresses into a semblance of control and already a few bold strands were stuck to her (no doubt) thoroughly reddened face. Checking a mirror to verify this would be an utter waste of time. Her silk blouse clung to her in unaccustomed places, indicating a pressing need to be stripped off and laundered. She WOULD have removed it earlier, had she not required a protective layer to keep her arms from being shredded by stray glass shards. As it was, she'd closed her eyes and re-purposed her cravat as a kind of mask to keep ballistic glass from striking her face. The wrapping worked, though it kept all the heat from her breath circulating near her skin... And now that she had the time to examine herself, there were little snags and rips in the silk sleeves.  


DRAT.  


Her favorite blouse!  


She'd chosen the ice-pale color specifically for the meeting with the Finance Ministers and Quatre; she'd grown weary of constant white and the faint blue was neither overwhelming nor extremely different from what colonists had grown accustomed to seeing her wear. For a group of people so focused upon innovation, they disliked change nearly as much as their Earth counterparts- And now it was ruined.  


Because of a WEAPON.  


DAMNABLE.  


Relena had never felt so inelegantly frustrated in her entire life.  


Even her time with Romefeller (mentally torturous though it was) had largely consisted of quietly sitting upon chairs rather than utilizing said chairs as battering rams.  


She knew she was angry, really she did.  


But from a distance.  


...Possibly too far distant to keep the appropriate tether upon her temper.  


Objectively, through the tunnel of roiling irritation, she knew anger was no excuse to shatter glass upon any innocent passers-by outside the hotel, much less to toss a formerly fashionable decorative object (such as the chair) upon their heads.  


Upon consideration, delivering a bomb from above was an equally inadvisable event.  


However.  


Utilizing one hard object to violently pulverize another felt GOOD.  


So good, in fact, that Relena had nearly forgotten the vital role of time in the exercise. She glanced towards the table clock.  


It read 07:41.  


Aha.  


_Quite possibly,_ Relena reflected, _the most productive ten minutes I've ever spent in a hotel room._  


Unlike the endless phone and video conferences she normally hosted among various parties both on and off-colony where agreements could be made only to be conveniently forgotten later (until she reminded said various parties with audio recordings of the event) or met with deep opposition by new voices that had NOT been present at said meetings, the change wrought upon this single pane of previously pristine glass was irrevocable and irreversable. Never again could the glass protect her from the winds and pollutants of the outside world; the hole was too big, with growing fractures cracking outwards from the main fissure like the anchoring filaments of a spider's web. She idly twisted the chair leg, causing the tortured glass to squeal and sprout more glittering branches among the cracks.  


Relena frowned.  


As satisfying in the moment as it had been to vent her frustrations upon an inanimate surface, even this small insight into humanity's joy in destruction now left Relena in regret-- the glass had been perfect, elegant and functional... Now ragged and violently cracked, robbed of its purpose by her own actions.  


The chair hadn't survived this bashing of hard surfaces, either.  


Some pacifist she was.  


So.  


To stop now was to render all previous effort an exercise in pointless anarchic mayhem. The only remaining apology was to complete her initial aim and shatter the window utterly.  


Perhaps she ought to cover her eyes?  


Flying glass posed a very real danger, and Relena would rather not be blinded by shards-  


_Really, is this even **necessary**?_  


Possessed of a thought, Relena strode in stockinged feet to the hotel door again, listening carefully. Surely, surely ten minutes posed a long enough time frame for a Preventer response to her messages to Lucrezia and Quatre.  


She heard nothing from the hallway and a quick peek into the purikura machine elicited no miraculous messages, drat it all.  


Now would have been an excellent time for a mysterious message to beep at her from the purikura machine.  


Quatre was particularly adept at hacking computers; he'd confessed somewhat shamefacedly during one night of soul-bearing that most of the upgrades to the five Gundams during the latter half of the war had been financed from funds 01, 02, and 04 had covertly transferred (certainly NOT with permission!) from the personal slush accounts of top Romefeller officials. Once Relena had controlled her laughter and could focus upon his explanation, the ensuing insight as to what could be done with the combined strengths of human ingenuity, the focus of a Gundam pilot, and an internet connection was both elucidating and somewhat worrisome. Happily, Quatre immediately swore that Gundam pilots only used their powers for good and had only 'mined' from the proven-to-be-unsavory characters in Romefeller's shadowy depths.  


It saddened Relena that not only had there been enough war criminals in Romefeller to justify this (post-war investigations verified Quatre's claim in depth), but that the level of graft was so heinous the Gundam pilots could secretly fund repairs to the most rare and expensive mobile suits the human race had ever known from the illicit coffers.  


_Please Quatre, please say you were able to respond..._  


The purikura screen remained at its standard display, cheerfully reminding the viewer that a happy souvenir of her delightful hotel experience lay no more than a click away.  


Relena was not amused.  


Oh, if only she'd learned something USEFUL, like how to bypass computer security!  


But no.  


St. Gabriel's devoted its class time to the pursuits of the elite.  


Etiquette and expected comportment resurrected from the Imperial age of Earth were cherished there. Equestrian studies for children in a world connected by space shuttles and MS weren't considered antiquarian. Classes in ballet and court dances were required for all young ladies, as no husband of the ruling class would accept a wife with less than a well-turned ankle. Historical military strategy, on the other hand, was considered _essential_ for male students, optional for females. As far as Relena could tell, that class consisted of a large pack of boys gathered around war tables, re-enacting famous battles from history with minuscule figurines and cheering intermittently as the 'Napoleon Bonaparte' of the day did something clever.  


None of these soft pursuits had prepared her classmates for the chaos of a real battlefield erupting on the school grounds between OZ mobile suits and Wing.  


She certainly hadn't expected to be saved by-  


Relena put the memory from her mind.  


Even her extended education in statecraft under her father left her lacking in simple real-world skills. Little Relena Dorlian could effortlessly recite French, Latin, and Greek declensions by the time she was eight, but when it came to the binary languages of the electronics that ran modern life, she posed a complete ignoramus.  


Relena rattled the doorknob, too irritated now to care about a possible shooter on the other side of the door. It would serve her right for allowing herself to go through life so... So PAMPERED!  


No response.  


Relena threw up her hands and stalked back to the chair, shooting the offending bomb a poisonous glance as she passed.  


She couldn't even use the excuse of rich pacifist parents as a reason why she had somehow managed to reach this moment of January 25th, AC 199 in such a state of unpreparedness. Quatre hadn't allowed his plush upbringing to lull him into a false sense of security. **He** started his journey towards independence when he was thirteen: meeting the Maguanacs, saving Rashid's life, and winning their undying respect all at once.  


Little Relena Dorlian, by contrast...  


She had lived most of her life as a nodding doll, politely obeying the social script before her, keeping silent even when the lines repulsed her.  


Ugh! What a metric of comparison!  


Relena _twisted_ the chair, prying the leg back and forth with all of her weight. A large slice of glass broke out onto the carpet, and Relena pushed harder, hands gripping the back of the chair in case she succeeded too well and had to yank it back.  


The window glass screeched.  


Isolated divots near the pressure-point of the chair plinked off the outside and cartwheeled down the side of the hotel like a rain of diamonds.  


The fractured glass _bent_.  


Relena felt it give.  


She pulled the chair back, panting heavily, flipped the chair around, and bashed the weak point from the top down.  


The thick safety glass fissured and crumpled, a crackled mat of silicon at last flapping open to let the brisk L1 air in.  


_Very well. The window now poses a point of egress._  


The Vice Foreign Minister stared down fourteen luxury-sized floors to the colony streets below. Off to her left lay a whisper of a ledge bordering more sheer glass panels. The wind tousled her hair as if the breeze alone could teach her how to fly.  


_Quite the egress._  


At least her room was directly above the hotel pool, per instructions from a previous security detail. If she survived today, Relena intended to require that all future rooms also possessed a sliding door leading to a balcony; she didn't care how much Agent Edwards fussed.  


Relena pulled her head back in, fingers in her hair to restore some semblance of order.  


07:52.  


Oh dear.

~~~~~

**Author's Note:** I made the mistake of putting this AND Catherine's chapter in the same word file. Now it's out and I can focus. Please consider it filler with a side of Relena character development!

Also, any preferences for the spellings of "Darlian" vs. "Dorlian? Her name has been Anglicized both ways. I can't decide whether I want to pull humor from Darlian's similarity to Darling or if I just like the sound of Dorlian better. Thoughts?


End file.
